


Morning Star

by idleton



Series: The Gift of Men [1]
Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Historical RPF, Masters of Rome - Colleen McCullough
Genre: Ancient Rome, Friendship, Illustrations, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Politics, Soulmates, War, Young Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idleton/pseuds/idleton
Summary: ‘I do not follow him blindly, brother.’ He halted at the doorway. ‘I do it with both eyes open, for he will have enemies, will need me to guard his back.’ He resumed his steps. ‘As long as I live, no harm will come to Gaius Octavius; and in time, he will be important to Rome. I swear on my soul.’ Marcus Agrippa stepped out of his childhood home, and did not look back.—From their first meeting in 50 BC to the conclusion of Caesar’s Civil War, 46 BC.See series description for details.
Relationships: Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa/Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus | Emperor Augustus
Series: The Gift of Men [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029498
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	1. All Roads Lead To Rome (1)

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on history, however I did lift some ideas straight from Colleen McCullough’s Masters of Rome series, eg that Octavius’ sickly disposition was due to his asthma. The characters and events won’t be the same as hers but I hope this still counts as fanfiction for Masters of Rome, since that series was what inspired me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 50 BC. February (pre-Julian).
> 
> Rome was the world, Marcus Agrippa thought, until he met Octavius.

The carriage jolted, shocking Marcus Agrippa from his fitful nap. Shielding his eyes from the white winter sun, he groaned and called to his brother: ‘Are we there yet?’

From the driver’s bench, Lucius answered: ‘Almost, see that white line over there, coming from the woods? That’s the Appian Aqueduct. Do you remember it?’

Gingerly Marcus sat up, spine croaking with each click-clack of the mules’ hooves on the road. He squinted; off in the distance he could indeed see a grey-white trail marching through the countryside, straight and sure like an inscription. Yes, he remembered. It had been a long time ago, he was but a toddler then. He remembered cranking his neck from a carriage, tracing that long column with his fingers to see if it had an end. He also remembered steady hands, papa or Lucius? They held onto his elbow, lest he fell and met a tragic end on the Appian Road, never to catch a glimpse of the Roman Forum.

Closing his eyes, Marcus recalled the Rome in his memories: a glimmering sea of terracotta roofs and bronze ornaments, sheer cliffs of marble painted in every colour he could name, and people everywhere. It had been too much for his young mind to handle, and try as he might now he could not remember any detail of the city save for vague impressions, like paint strokes upon a dream.

‘Tullius’ house is right underneath the aqueduct, isn’t it? Just behind the walls?’ shaking off the reverie, he said to Lucius.

‘That’s right.’ his brother’s voice was strained, lacking its usual jubilance. Marcus clambered onto the seat and offered him a drink from their waterskin. Relinquishing the reins, Lucius drank deeply and sat back, his eyes straight ahead as shrubbery gave way to fields and farmsteads. For a while a pensive silence fell over them, save for the steady beating of wheels and hooves on packed stones.

A pair of over-ambitious country bumpkins they were. Their name was well-established in Arpinium: a relatively wealthy and respectable family of the Equestrian class. Their father wore his thin purple stripes proudly as he managed their businesses and investments around the prosperous Roman colony. Yet it was also no secret that they had hailed from Italian Etruria, that they were Roman citizens, but not Roman. In their grandfather’s lifetime they had not even been that: they were socii, friends of Rome, not Roman. Born into this discord and its inevitable war, Lucius Vipsanius Senior had understood that any lasting prosperity for his children required them to advance Rome’s social hierarchy itself. He had given them all that he could: comfort, education, wealth, love; yet none of those things would raise their Dignitas - the respect and worth he knew they deserved. ‘Nothing so lofty as the Senate!’ He had clasped their hands, eyes fierce and loving. ‘But as tribunes, you will be at least be acknowledged among the New Men. You will thrive, my sons, you will be secure! Above all, you will be remembered.’

Casting a sidelong glance at his brother, Marcus nudged him with an elbow. ‘Look, I can see the city sprawl. How many people could fit in it, you think?’

Lucius’ mouth quirked. ‘Demetrius would be horrified, Marcus. The estimate is loose, between five-hundred-thousand to one-million within the bounds of the Servian walls. Most of the population is concentrated in the dells and the outer hills; only the most important citizens live on and around the Palatine.’ he regurgitated in his best monotone voice. ‘And here I thought you were the diligent one.’ He finally smiled, ruffling Marcus’ hair. ‘Ah well. You have some years left, little brother. I’m already a man after all.’

‘A man!’ Marcus exclaimed, laughing. ‘Your seventeenth birthday was last week, Lucius. You might wear the toga virilis, but you have yet to celebrate your first shaving! You are only three years older than me.’ Lucius’ mouth twitched, but he schooled it into a severe expression and deepened his voice in perfect imitation of Demetrius, their home tutor. ‘A man is a man when he knows it, child!’ They both sniggered, their moods lightened for a while at the harmless expense of their stodgy pedagogue.

So distracted were they by their own jokes and dramatic impressions that they failed to notice a horse galloping down the sides of a steep hillock until it was almost on the road and upon them. The horse neighed, rearing its front legs like a mantis, and charged. Their mules whined in fright and veered off the road, trying to get away, their momentum almost throwing Marcus off his perch. Grabbing the bench with both hands, he looked up at the charging horse in alarm. Its shadow fell upon them, but at the last moment it turned and the great hooves missed Marcus by a hair. He had not the chance to feel relieved, however, as a weight came crashing down on him at the same time, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

Later he would wonder what made him act thus, but at present, instead of bracing himself on the carriage to steady his precarious balance, he stretched out both arms and held the ballistic charge tight against his chest, using only his legs to grapple for a hold. Dimly he could hear Lucius shout, panicked. His brother grabbed him with one hand, the other moving wildly, trying to get their mules under control. The wagon tilted once, twice, then stilled. Their mules whinnied, the great horse was nowhere to be found, and Lucius was saying something that Marcus could not make out from the thudding of his heart, mingled with another’s.

Moments passed. Marcus took a deep gulp of breath, then another, and another. He could smell figs. The incongruous thought finally shook him out of his shellshocked state; he raised his face and realised with a start that it had been pressed against a mass of golden flax, soft and shiny. The flaxen bundle shifted, a muffled voice coming from underneath. ‘Um, I would love to thank you for saving me, but it’s a little hard to do from this position.’ He jerked back in surprise, almost letting go. Hands came up to grip his tunic, and the voice squeaked ‘Wait, wait, let me move off first.’

Awkwardly his relinquished charge clambered off to one side. It was a living person, Marcus’ throbbing head told him helpfully. A tiny one, no more than a child or youth, who now turned towards them, and Marcus’ newly recovered breathing once again left him.

A boy. Yet that sounded an inappropriate way to address him. His face was in the fullness of childhood, but underlined with the kind of nobility that Marcus had only seen in marble. Sharp cheekbones were beginning to assert themselves on his slender oval face; his nose was narrow and completely straight with a slight upwards tilt - how very un-Roman, but somehow it suited him. His mouth was set in a sculpted bow, presently parted in quick breaths, but there hid a ghost of a secretive smile around the corners. And his eyes - they must be the most magnificent thing in this world, Marcus thought. Huge and round, they dominated his young face; limpid pools of pale grey framed by thick lashes, in the daylight they were like the winter sky, silver with the barest hints of blue. His pale-gold hair was worn a little long, so that in their disheveled state the loose curls fell into his eyes like wisps of sunlight. He was shockingly beautiful, and Marcus felt light-headed just looking at him.

The stranger was staring at him in return. Both jumped as a clank sounded, breaking the spell between them. They turned to look at Lucius, now standing directly in front of them, breathing hard. ‘What was that?’ he exclaimed. ‘We could have died. Do you know how to ride a horse?’ He began to gesticulate as his anger rose. ‘I can’t believe we are alive and all in one piece! Why are you even riding by yourself, kid? Where is your minder?’

The stranger frowned, he drew himself up and spoke with all the formality of a magistrate. ‘I apologise, truly. It was not my intention, and the horse proved more wild than I had anticipated.’ he said, remorseful but not cowed. ‘I am Gaius Octavius. I’m deeply sorry for the accident and the trouble it caused you; if you require compensation, my family will be ready to render it.’

Lucius narrowed his eyes. Recognising the signs of his brother’s temper, Marcus hastily cut in. ‘It’s not necessary. We’re alright, and that’s all that matters.’ he ventured, ‘What about you, are you hurt?’

The stranger - Gaius Octavius - turned back to him, and a peculiar flustered look danced across his proud expression. ‘I’m unhurt.’ He turned on his seat, the stiffness in his posture softening. ‘And I must thank you, your quick reaction probably saved my life.’ He paused, then inclined his head slightly. ‘My recklessness could have killed us all.’

Scratching the back of his head, Marcus waved away the praise. ‘It was nothing. Nobody was hurt. Everybody makes mistakes, and that did seem like a mighty big horse. A barely tamed stallion judging from the way it charged, I say it’s more the stablehands’ fault for giving him to you. A handler should know better, matching a horse to its rider—‘ Realising he was rambling, Marcus cut himself off and awkwardly coughed. ‘-anyway, it’s gone now, and you’re without a ride. Where do you live? We could take you back, we’re heading into the city ourselves.’

Chancing a glance at his brother, Marcus internally cringed at the stupefied expression on Lucius’ face. He gestured for Lucius to come back up, which his brother complied with a shake of his head and a discontent muttering of ‘goody two-shoes’.

Re-taking the reins in his hands, Marcus steered their cart back on the road. ‘We haven’t introduced ourselves.’ He said as they rolled forwards again, albeit at a much more sedate pace. ‘I am Marcus Vipsanius, and this is my elder brother Lucius. We are travellers from Arpinium.’

‘Well met, Marcus Vipsanius. Lucius Vipsanius.’ The boy replied, arranging himself more securely on the bench. ‘I’m sorry that we got off on the, uh, wrong hoof.’ Lucius sniggered, ever easily amused. ‘As I said, my name is Gaius Octavius, of the noble Octavii branch. I meant it when I said I would render any due compensation you might name - it was my fault after all.’

‘And I meant it when I said no such thing is necessary.’ Marcus countered. ‘What were you doing, if you don’t mind us asking, riding all the way out here by yourself?’ From the corner of his eye, Marcus saw a flush creeping up the other’s fair face.

‘I’m afraid your brother was quite right.’ He nodded at Lucius, as much of a peace offering as he was willing to give. ‘I’m not much of a rider myself, and it’s something of an embarrassment. I thought to practice a little by myself, but I see now that was unwise. The admiration of my friends wouldn’t do me any good if I were dead. I’m lucky to be alive, and for that I must thank you again.’

‘Anytime, though I hope it’s not too frequent.’ Marcus grinned. ‘And I think it’s by far more foolish to shame those trying to learn. It took me a long time to master the horse as well, and to be entirely honest, I still much prefer marching on two feet.’ he said encouragingly.

‘The most Roman flaw, I salute you.’ Octavius shot him an answering grin, eyes twinkling with mirth.

For a while they rode and spoke of things light-hearted and mundane, easing in each other’s company, yet mindful that they were but chance strangers at a crossroad. Octavius did not enquire after their purpose, and they did not venture it. A yawning gap lay between them; it was clear to all present that they belonged to different worlds. For the first time in his young life, Marcus found himself wishing better of his station. Silently he chastised himself for those ungrateful thoughts - papa had done more than enough, the rest is on me, he told himself.

At last their shared path came to a fork. ‘Here comes the Capena Gate. Our destination is just beyond it, but we could take you back to your home, if you’d like.’ Marcus said to Octavius, hopeful and reluctant.

‘It’s fine, I can just get off here, I’m used to walking. Besides, I wouldn’t want to trouble you two any more than I already did.’ Octavius declined, and Marcus fell his heart shrank with disappointment. ‘But if you find any of your belongings broken, or should you ever change your mind, do come find me at the Philippa House on Palatine Hill.’ He hopped down as they slowed to a stop behind the gate. There, instead of leaving straight away, he stood lingering, opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it and shook his head. Marcus found himself wishing to speak, but no thought came to him. They stared at each other in silence for a few moments.

Lucius cleared his throat from beside him, once again breaking whatever strange spell that seemed to only befall the two of them. Octavius recovered first; he drew up, the picture of a patrician child: fair and proud, his tunic pristine, his protective golden amulet glinting around his neck. With a polite smile, he said ‘Well, perhaps we will meet again. Until then, farewell, Lucius and Marcus Vipsanius.’ Then he departed, not looking back.

—

It was only their second day as guests in Quintus Tullius Rufus’ house when disaster struck.

The previous night they had taken supper with their host, a jovial and generous man, if slightly vulgar. He and their father were old friends, and like Lucius Vipsanius Senior, he had been remarkably successful in accumulating wealth, a fact made abundantly clear by his city dwelling. What it lacked in decoration, it more than compensated in amenities exclusive to the very wealthy, including a kitchen and a small private bath. A banker he said he was, most of his fabulous wealth was made in a series of lucrative lending ventures, but his fortunes ended there, for a string of wives did not bear him any son. He took an immediate liking to them, especially Lucius, whose sense of humour almost rivalled his in coarseness.

They had talked late into the night, of Arpinium, of Rufus’ shared childhood with their father, old but not forgotten, and of what now lay ahead for the brothers. Rufus offered to take Lucius with him to mingle with like-minded men of Equestrian rank, while the steward of the house, a Greek freedman named Felix, would help Marcus choose a grammar school with the explicit criterion that it must count among its pupils children of influential citizens. The last bit had been at the insistence of Rufus himself, who declared that the best connections needed to be made young, or else Marcus would share his brother’s fate of having to try and come out on top in an ever-ballooning aspirational class. By the time they all went to bed, he had looked at them with something akin to familial affection.

Before dawn broke, Marcus and Lucius were woken by the panicked voices of slaves and servants in the house. ‘Domine! We are all flooded at the back!’ Felix the steward cried; and true to his word the floor was wet underneath Marcus’ feet.

‘Shit! I curse every single aedile and prefect ever elected in this piss-hole! Why do we even pay taxes?’ Rufus was predictably furious, and within the hour he was striding out of the door, intending to find the urban-prefects in charge of their area and give them a piece of his mind. ‘You might as well tag along, son.’ he said to Lucius, ‘I’ll show you the only way to kick those idle bodies into actually doing their job. Come! Knowing them it’ll take all day just to get someone down here.’

Almost the whole day it did take: noon came and went without any change for the better. In fact, the situation worsened and almost all hands in the house were preoccupied with stemming the flood, now overflowing from a nearby latrine. In the afternoon, Felix seemed to have suddenly remembered Marcus, who had been busying himself with saving the storeroom, along with the kitchen staff.

‘I am terribly sorry, young master!’ he cried, distressed. ‘This is a horrendous welcome we have offered you! I have not helped you as I promised, instead you helped us! And now there won’t even be a bath for you!’ He wailed. ‘You must go to a bathhouse and wash up, leave this to us, please!’

Marcus opened his mouth to say it could wait, but the muddy water that had sprayed on his face earlier chose to make itself known to his lips. He grimaced and nodded his accedence.

A rucksack in tow, but no slave or servant as no one else could be spared, Marcus left for the bath Felix had directed him. ‘Go to this one, young master, it’s new and a fair bit cleaner than the rest.’ Not particularly picky about the choice, he followed the directions, which went a good deal further than normally necessary. He saw on his way many smaller facilities; bathing was, after all, as Roman as pretending to like the toga. Alas, many appeared to be in caught in the same chaos as Rufus’ home.

Thermae Novati, the inscription read as he finally arrived. Down the stone steps stood a spacious courtyard, which served as an open gymnasium for boys and young men. On any other day, Marcus would have tried to join them, if not for making friends then at least to stretch his muscles, but now his arms and legs protested from moving bag after bag and barrel after barrel around, so wearily he paid the keeper the customary fee before heading straight for the steamy tepidarium.

Trodding into the room in his small things, he cast about for a place to sit, but as soon as his gaze took flight it was caught on a flash of gold. At first he thought it was someone wearing a crown, an absurd notion, not to mention illegal. This was Rome of the Romans, the people who cast down their kings.

He stared and the crown melted into locks of golden hair, half-wet. Blond hair was rare in Italia, though not unheard of. Still, it immediately reminded him of the stranger from yesterday. I wonder if I should ever see him again, Marcus thought with a strange bang. He wondered some more why it was so painful that he might not, they had spoken a scant few words after all. Besides, Octavius was a noble, high-born child, it was unlikely—

Marcus gaped. The golden head turned around as if sensing eyes on him, silvery grey eyes widening in recognition. Laughter began to bubble from his throat in almost in the same instance as doubt began to form in his mind - would the other boy even want to see him again? The question was moot, for his feet already carried him unbidden to Octavius.

‘Hullo. We meet again, Gaius Octavius.’ He grinned, finding confidence from some unknown place.

‘Yes.’ His stunned companion nodded. ‘Marcus Vipsanius. Here, sit down, before some mighty force sent you careening into me. It seems—’ A smile began to grow on his face and he nodded again, as if coming to a decision. ‘We are required to meet, and we risk offending whichever god who willed it by refusing.’

Marcus sat down next to him, grin unfading. ‘I didn’t expect to find you here’ he said.

‘Nor I. We are equally unlikely to be here,’ Octavius countered. ‘If my memories aren’t already failing me, you said your lodging wasn’t far from the Capena Gate. This is almost at the foot of the Viminal.’

‘You remember correctly. And the reason I’m here would also explain why I’m this filthy.’ He gestured to himself. ‘I’m usually not, honest. There was a plumbing accident near the Appian.’ he explained. ‘A high-pressure valve, that’s all I could make from all the shouting. In any case, disaster cascaded through the entire area, and I had little choice but to journey all the way out here to wash.’ He finished with a grimace.

Octavius laughed. ‘How unlucky! But perhaps it really was a god’s will that we should meet again.’ Then he peered at Marcus. ‘Is your family of knightly rank? I apologise, I didn’t recognise your nomen before.’

‘Nor should you. We are indeed Equestrian, and we do well enough for ourselves in Arpinium, but our name carries no significance.’ Marcus explained, beginning to unwind as the steam worked its wonders upon him. ‘In fact, our business in Rome is chiefly - how did Lucius say it? - “to wiggle upwards”. He is to find a sponsor for a military commission, and I- I guess I will find a master or enrol in a decent school, readying myself for the same. When the time comes, that is.’ He chuckled. ‘Right now, I am but a country-squire, known only by the cognomen I received at birth, Agrippa.’

‘Agrippa - born feet first - well, I remember the way we met clearly enough to say that you do your namesake justice.’ Octavius commented.

‘That’s right, I have never lost my footing in a climb or a ford.’ Marcus grinned widely, finding it very easy to relax in Octavius’ company, even after the strange beginning of their acquaintance. ‘And you said you were of the noble Octavii.’ he asked, silently wondering what a patrician scion was doing in this place. ‘What is your cognomen?’

Octavius shrugged. ‘I wasn’t born with one. My father named me Thurinus after his victory in Thurii, but he passed away shortly after, and nobody really used that name since.’

‘I’m sorry. I know of his name. He was a good commander.’ Marcus said sincerely, trying to summon what he could remember of Demetrius’ history of the slave rebellions.

The other boy hummed in agreement, eyes fluttering closed. ‘Yes, I was too young to remember him, but my mother remarried well. Lucius Philippus is a good man and a good father. Not to mention a senator of high regard.’

His tone was content; there was nothing in it that hinted at what he said being untrue, yet there was something unvoiced. Marcus was seized by a sudden desire to hear it. He wanted, absurdly, nothing less than all of Octavius’ trust, whole and entire. He wanted to know every thought and feeling, to share all the happy or ugly things that made up this boy’s world. It was a preposterous idea, disturbing in its potency. Yet he could not stop himself from asking, ‘But you’re not happy about it?’

Octavius’ eyes snapped open. Gone was the twinkle in the silver-grey. All the warmth and budding friendliness had left his expression; he stared at Marcus, cold and hard. Marcus was aware that what he had said was rude, but the strange desire still controlled him. He sat in silence, allowing Octavius’ weighing gaze to come to its own judgement. He had nothing to hide - and fervently he thought, even if I did I would not. Trust me.

Moments passed, though they felt like an eternity. At last, Octavius’ expression shifted, a faint quirk of the mouth. ‘I’m not unsatisfied. But you’re right, there is more.’ He continued, though there was a different quality to his voice now, almost conspiring. ‘My maternal great-uncle is Gaius Julius Caesar, the general and triumvir. He is a great man, a colossus; none in Rome or in the entire world could compare to him. Yes, I wish he could have been my father, but I shall be content being his great-nephew. He will be the greatest of all Romans. And I will be of use to him.’ he declared, fervour burning in his eyes.

You will be, and I envy him, Marcus thought, the truth in it unsettled him. He shook it off. ‘That is commendable. Caesar is a brilliant man.’ he said. That much is true, he conceded to himself, Caesar’s victory in Gaul had been absolute, bringing all of it under Rome’s protection - we are free from at least one threat of barbarians thanks to him.

‘I heard he had been to the edge of the world, beyond Gaul. I have been meaning to find and read his treatise on the Gallic campaign. Do you know much about it?’ At this question, the other boy’s eyes lit up and he launched into an enthusiastic account of the Gallic wars. Back and forth they traded commentary on the events and whatever strategy either could gleam from them.

‘So, in addition to being vastly out-numbered and under-supplied, Uncle Caesar was faced with the threat of a truly massive enemy reinforcement from all directions. There was no weakness in the Gallic position.’ Octavius was re-counting the legendary siege of Alesia, as it was becoming known across the lands.

‘Then we must create it, before striking!’ Marcus exclaimed, enthralled by the tale.

Octavius looked startled. ‘How strange, those were almost exactly Uncle Caesar’s words. His senior legates thought the best chance they had was an all-out attack, leaning on our technological superiority and legionary discipline. Uncle Caesar disagreed, he—‘ As he was speaking, a strange gasping sound caught in his throat and cut him off. He sat up straight, trying to draw deep breaths, but they grew quicker and more ragged with each intake.

Marcus stared at the other boy in alarm, but very quickly it came to him that whatever this is, Octavius would not wish for others to know, if he could help it. The budding protectiveness began to bloom in his heart; he touched Octavius’ elbow and said gently ‘I think they have increased the heat in here. This much steam is too much for my comfort; would you join me elsewhere?’

Octavius spared him a glance between laboured breaths and nodded.

The arched corridors led them to little scalding-pools. Despite the intense heat, or because of it, the scaldarium were well-ventilated by round windows on the high ceiling. Octavius stumbled onto a bench, finally succumbing to fits of hacking coughs. He kept his head up, and for several moments fought a valiant battle for breathing. Marcus hovered, eventually he settled for keeping a hand on the other boy’s back and watching him for any life-threatening sign, but saying nothing.

At last Octavius’ breathing steadied, his coughs thinned before quieting. He turned to Marcus, eyes glinting. ‘Thank you, Agrippa. I think I owe you some sort of explanation.’ he said, voice slightly hoarse. Marcus shrugged, ‘Only if you wish to tell.’ He told the voice in his head calling a liar to shut up.

Octavius smiled. ‘I do. You must have been wondering what a patrician was doing unaccompanied in a bathhouse.’

Marcus nodded, ‘Yes, but it does seem fitting, based on prior experience.’

The other boy giggled. ‘Don’t make me laugh, my throat still hurts. Yes, I did walk right into that, didn’t I? Well, it’s true that I came here to be away from prying eyes and my mother’s anxious hovering, but I swear this time there are reasons other than vanity for the ruse.’ he said. ‘I wasn’t born a healthy child. I dare say my father didn’t think I would make it into adulthood.’ he began. ‘This condition is the main reason. Sometimes I would wheeze and cough, seemingly out of nowhere, and often to the point of near suffocation. My family had invited famous physicians to see me from all over Greece and Egypt, but there was no conclusive answer, save that it is a malady of the lungs, it is incurable, it manifests differently in all the records they could find, and that I must learn to live with it.’ he concluded blandly, then glanced at Marcus and laughed. ‘Oh don’t look so troubled, Marcus Agrippa! I have managed well so far, haven’t I? It’s the unpredictability of it that worries me. If I were to enter public office, as I will, I must master it. That means knowing the triggers and how to counter them, as well as practicing concealing the symptoms.’

Marcus’ heart constricted painfully. ‘That’s why you’re here by yourself? To check whether these baths might affect you?’ He asked. ‘Correct. I have been experimenting and cataloguing my body’s reaction to anything that I might come upon later in life, and I must do so with every variable accounted for.’ Octavius confirmed. ‘Now I must be honest with you. I was doing exactly that when we met yesterday. I suspected horses didn’t agree with me, but I was unsure whether it was the animals themselves, their stables, or the dust they disturbed in their wake.’ He scrunched his nose in thought. ‘And I still don’t know. Once the coughing fits had come on during a riding lesson, but that had been in spring, and in a different location.’ He muttered, half to himself. ‘Anyway, Stybba - the one you saw - wasn’t a fan of my distracted handling, and you know the rest. I swear I’m not actually that bad a rider.’

Marcus’ throat tightened. He swallowed, then burst out: ‘I will help you.’ Octavius looked taken aback. ‘...well, however I can.’ Marcus added lamely.

The other boy was quiet for a few beats. ‘But you already have, Marcus Agrippa.’ he said, voice quiet and full of wonder, ‘The Gods must have sent you to me, I am sure of it. Why else am I so inclined to open myself to you, against every of my instincts?’

Marcus cleared his throat, pleased with Octavius’ admission. ‘Then I must offer my gratitude to Jupiter, for destroying the plumbing around the Appian today.’ He joked, trying for light-hearted.

‘Should it be Vulcan, god of the forge and construction instead?’ Octavius chuckled. ‘Though I would say your plumbing problems were entirely man-made. You should instead make offerings to crop after crop of aediles for neglecting our public works so thoroughly and so long.’

‘I’ll change it one day. Build an aqueduct that’s not ancient and leaky. A proper sewage system. Maybe a bath or two to top it off.’ Marcus said, barely aware that he was admitting an inclination for mundane work that was ill-suited for ambition, but Octavius’ smile brightened.

‘Then I long for the day when you are in the Senate, Marcus Agrippa. Oh, don’t deny it!’ He laughed. ‘You will be. Although,’ he peered at Marcus, expression blank in a way that Marcus was quickly learning to be his actual ‘thinking’ face. ‘Have you been taught mathematics, engineering, philosophy? Or Greek, poetry, oratory? I assume,’ He scanned Marcus from head to toe, making him flush. ‘You are already very good at swordplay and other martial arts.’

‘Yes, I think I’m decent with arithmetic, and passable in most subjects our pedagogue tried to teach us; but I’m absolutely hopeless with Greek - I have to translate every word to Latin.’ confessed Marcus, slightly ashamed.

Octavius was unfazed. ‘Nor am I very good at it myself. I do the same, to tell you the truth. Did your family have a master in mind when they sent you here - or are you going to enrol in some grammar school?’ he asked.

‘The latter. Though I haven’t decided on the school.’ Marcus sighed.

The other boy hummed. ‘Then, what say you to studying with me? My grammarian is Tyrannion, a Greek scholar of some fame, and he did suggest that I should be educated with like-minded boys. I’m sure he would be amenable to having you.’

Marcus stared at him, startled. ‘Are you certain?’ He was met with an impatient look.

‘I assure you, I have never been more sure of anything else in my life.’ Joy erupted in his heart as the implication of the offer hit him: he would be by Octavius’ side, at least while they were taught together. A huge grin stole over his face, and he gave the only answer he could, ‘I would be honoured, Gaius Octavius.’ 

Octavius nodded with a smile, wide and satisfied as a house-cat. ‘The honour is all mine. Leave the matter with me, I will send a messenger as soon as it’s settled.’ His eyes was soft with something like fondness.

Marcus coughed and ducked his head under the scalding water, the need to clean his hair as much an excuse as it was real. When he emerged, his thick curls lay flat on his head, and Octavius was now looking at him with amusement.

‘I wouldn’t do that before checking how clean the pool was, if I were you.’ he said primly, washing his already pristine hair. ‘There ought to be laws on how often bath water must be replaced. We do know that ill-humours live well in warm and wet places. Who knows what else might be sitting in here.’

‘Like a smart patrician young man?’ Marcus grinned, teasing him lightly.

Octavius laughed, lifting himself out of the pool. ‘My family was plebeian until a few years ago, when Uncle Caesar elevated us to patrician status. You said you were a country-squire; well, I am but a city-squire.’

Whatever he was, ‘squire’’ was not the word, Marcus thought as he eyed the grace with which his new friend executed the simple action of leaving the bath. In the afternoon sunlight, his flaxen head shone a coronal silver-gold, and the skin on his back translucent as marble. Aware that his thoughts had strayed into improper territory, Marcus reined them in. They were not a pair of Greek youths; in Rome this kind of attention was only acceptable towards lesser men and boys, those in servitude and those lacking in Dignitas - two descriptions which could not be further from Gaius Octavius, Marcus added to himself. Nay, I do him a great injustice to even harbour these thoughts. He shook his head vehemently and followed the other boy out of the pool. ‘Want to dive headfirst into the cold baths? It’s the best way to finish!’

Octavius looked at him askance. ‘I doubt the sudden change is good for any living body!’ he complained, but followed nonetheless.

—

The day was growing old when Marcus finally returned to Rufus’ home at the southern foot of the Caelian, in a much better mood than when he had set out. At their parting, Octavius had reaffirmed his promise, and added: ‘Mention to your father and brother that Tyrannion teaches me along with the Cicero sons. I think that would make your job of convincing them much easier. Farewell for now, and I look forward to being in your care.’ With that he had smiled cheekily and left.

Marcus hummed a soft tune to himself as he closed the remaining few steps towards his temporary home. Twilight painted the entire street red and glinted off wet paving stones, here and there a puddle remained, but to his eyes it seemed as pretty as an avenue of the gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- There is some debate on Octavius’ appearance. Some thought the “subflavum” of his hair was light brown and the “steely eyes” were metaphorical rather than physical. In my mind’s eye he will always be a Legolas-haired, grey-eyed beauty (thanks Colleen).
> 
> \- The calendar is messed up. It’s a lunar calendar, and the Roman college of priests had to fix it manually every year to align with the solar year. They had been falling behind by this time and the result is the calendar was ahead of the seasons by about 3 months.
> 
> \- Some illustrations. I do NOT own any of these images.
> 
> Locations in this chapter (marked on a map of a later era):  
> 
> 
> Atrium of an upper-class home (domus):  
> 
> 
> Slum (Subura):  
> 
> 
> Bath (this is an imperial bath, which is much more lavish than those in the time of this chapter, but it’s good for inspiration):  
> 
> 
> Steam bath (tepidarium, this is a real one in Pompeii):  
> 


	2. All Roads Lead To Rome (2)

‘Philippus’ step-son?’ Quintus Tullius Rufus furrowed his brows at his guests. All three of them were reclining on low couches, set around several tables laden with an uncomplicated but hearty meal.

It had been a trying day. Before dawn, a heavy valve had failed, triggering a chain reaction that took down several pipes connected to the Appian, flooding the whole street with water and sewage. He had spent all morning trying to find the aedile and prefects for the area, but when he finally located them, they were already besieged by a host of other disgruntled citizens, thus depriving him of the chance to show young Lucius his excellent chastening skills. On the bright side, it had meant the matter was fixed with all possible haste, and at long last, after everything was cleaned and accounted for, they could all take their well-deserved break.

As they supped on warm bread, grilled fish, and a motley soup of garden vegetables, he told them in colourful detail what he thought of the current aediles elected to the Senate, then the previous ones, then the quaestors and praetors, oh he could go on about all of them! He would have, if the boys did not look so tired. Before he could suggest that they retire, the younger lad, Marcus, broached to them an extraordinary tale. 

By chance, the boy explained, he and Lucius had saved the life of a young patrician caught in a riding accident — Lucius had scoffed at the word ‘accident’. In gratitude the noble kid had suggested that Marcus should study with him and his mini-senatorial friends — Lucius had gaped at this, since when, he interrupted — since I ran into him again, Marcus had answered. Rufus was a little lost at this point, and he bade the boys to return to the most important question - the kid’s lineage, which brought them to the present moment.

‘Yes sir.’ little Marcus replied. ‘And his study-mates were the Ciceros, he said.’

‘The Cicero kids?’ Rufus’ eyebrows rose from their huddled position. ‘Well, that’s some lofty acquaintance you’ve made, son, if you manage to hold onto them. Although, there might be a problem.’ He scratched his chin in thought. At this the boy froze, looking adorably apprehensive. Rufus smiled. ‘Maybe it’s not such a big deal. I was just remembering, and if I’m right - this kid is the great-nephew of Gaius Caesar. That’s a complicated name these days.’

Rufus was slightly disturbed. Nothing good ought to come out of associating with the likes of Caesar, the bloodthirsty bandit. Members of the unwashed Head-Count might worship the ground he walked on, and the lesser members of the Eques along with them - but he knew better. His patron was Pompey the Great after all. And if there were any truth to the rumours, the Senate was about to move against Caesar. When and how, Rufus was not quite sure. But in any case, Caesar was going straight to the margins of the history records, if not struck from them altogether. Now who would want to ally themselves with that? But — oh, this could hardly be called such, could it? This budding friendship between children. He had spent so much time smiling and shaking hands in Pompey’s atrium that he must be going insane. The other brat wasn’t even a close relation of Caesar’s. Not a Julian at any rate. Philippus was wealthy enough to buy him a backbencher seat in the Senate when his time came, but Rufus could not see how this rather irrelevant acquaintanceship could affect little Marcus’ future career. Little Marcus! He was so young still. The whole internal debate was starting to sound silly to Rufus.

‘Well, I’m only saying, because I promised your father I would look after you both as my own.’ He grinned at the boys’ anxious faces. ‘Caesar is not a popular name with the men running the Senate.’ he said. ‘Not many people were happy with his warmongering, you see. Declaring war on a coalition of tribes? With an under-manned army? And without so much as a by-your-leave to the Senate. Bah!’ Rufus shook his head in disapproval. ‘The Senate have been too lenient with him, but no more! They will soon bring the might of the state on him, and teach him what it means to respect our republic! It’s not a good time to be allied to Caesar.’ He paused for dramatic effect, then judging that neither boy was breathing, he laughed and clasped little Marcus on his shoulder. ‘Haha! But don’t you worry about any of this squabble among great men, son. I say you’re free to schmooze your patrician friend. Might earn a patron if he proved to not be a deadweight!’ He laughed uproariously at the lad’s shocked expression. ‘And the Ciceros, you said? I don’t know about them, but their fathers are legendary indeed. Well! I think that’s your schooling sorted, little Marcus. Well done, I approve!’ He took the boy’s forehead in his hands and landed a large, hearty smooch on it.

‘...Then I also approve.’ Lucius eventually managed. Rufus beamed at both of them.

—

Three days later, a messenger appeared on their doorstep at the crack of dawn, as Octavius promised. The message was economical, written in a thin cursive hand:

‘I have obtained permission from Philippus and Tyrannion. Bring your writing tablet, quill, parchment, and three hundred denarii for the tuition - Tyrannion charges an obscene amount per month, lucky for him he is very competent.’  
‘P.S. Bring your exercise clothes. I trust you are as good with a sword as you looked.’

Smiling at the note, Marcus did as he was bidden - the tuition was indeed obscene, but their father had spared no expense. He left by himself, since Lucius had taken to follow Quintus Tullius Rufus on the man’s near-daily pilgrimage to the household of Pompey the Great.

The trek up the Palatine was long and cold, but Marcus hardly felt it in his excitement.

When he arrived, he was immediately shown to the dining lounge by a waiting servant. A small group of men reclined among open scrolls and jugs of wine, at their centre was a dark-coloured man. At Marcus’ hesitant approach, he looked up and smiled. ‘You must be young Marcus Agrippa. I am Lucius Marcius Philippus, welcome to our humble home.’ His warm eyes appraised Marcus. ‘Little Gaius told me to imagine the most promising military I could think of at age fourteen. He was right.’

Marcus flushed. ‘Thank you, Lucius Philippus, sir. Truly, I appreciate you allowing me to be here.’

‘There is only one person you have to thank for that.’ Philippus laughed away Marcus’ formality. ‘It’s all Gaius’ doing. Then again, if there was anything he ever wanted, I doubt he would have trouble getting it. Sometimes I wish my own sons were half as charming. But then I would have no rest, would I?’ He chuckled.

A chorus of voices drifted to them from outside, signalling the arrival fo Marcus’ soon-to-be classmates. ‘Off you go then, young Agrippa.’ Philippus waved his dismissal. ‘Don’t be intimidated by Tyrannion, he’s a softie at heart. And try not to let little Gaius get his way too often.’

Marcus found them in the study. There stood an old man facing away from him, addressing an audience of three boys. Closest to Marcus was a lanky youth with brown hair and bright hazel eyes. He looked to be the oldest of the lot, though he still wore the purple-bordered toga of childhood. He immediately noticed Marcus, but only stared impassively and said nothing. Next to him sat a younger boy with the same hair, one knee popping to a hidden rhythm. He glanced up, his dark brown eyes meeting Marcus’, but any reaction he might have had quailed under the attention of the old man. These must be the Ciceros, Marcus noted, though he could not tell which one was the son of the famous orator. Then of course there was Octavius himself. His smile was brilliant when he finally noticed Marcus, who tried to smile back but found his face stiff with nerves.

The man - their grammarian - turned around and revealed himself to be clad in a toga of Athenian fashion. He was so wrinkled that his face almost looked like a dried fig, his eyes, however, were as bright and piercing as a hawk’s. He fixed that unsmiling face on Marcus. ‘Well? Marcus Agrippa isn’t it? You are almost late. And what are you still waiting for?’

‘Begging your pardon, master Tyrannion,’ Marcus stammered, bowing low, ‘it won’t happen again.’ Tyrannion harrumphed, but he waved Marcus towards an empty chair to Octavius’ right.

‘We will begin book eighteenth of the Iliad today.’ Tyrannion spoke ‘But first, whose could recite the verses we highlighted from book seventeenth?’ He scanned the young faces, then sighing, he pinched the bridge of his brows and pointed to Octavius, who meekly obeyed. Marcus thought his friend’s rendition of the Homeric verses were perfect, even though he understood less than half of it.

Their teacher did not seem appeased. As soon as Octavius finished, he asked without pause and in Greek: ’What is the difference between Aristotelian and Platonic ideas of knowledge?’

Octavius stared at him blankly for several seconds, during which Marcus worried on his behalf with some indignation - that wasn’t fair, he thought. Then he answered, slowly and perfectly enunciated - as far as Marcus could tell, though he didn’t quite understand what was being said. Still, he stared at Octavius, amazed.

Tyrannion only pinched his eyebrows harder. He spoke, this time in Latin: ‘Did you just translate that from Latin to Greek in your head?’

‘Yes sir,’ Octavius replied, embarrassed at being caught. ‘I still can’t think in Greek at all, even if I had been reading it. It’s just easier for me to translate.’ He turned his large grey eyes on the man imploringly.

‘You will never master the language that way, as I told you countless times before.’ Tyrannion sighed. ‘I will make sure you are sent to Athens for your oratorical studies the moment you turn seventeen.’ He turned towards the Cicero boys. ‘Marcus Cicero!’ he barked at the younger of the two. ‘Start reading the first verse in book eighteenth, it’s right there before you. And translate each line as you go. Remember I have full permission from your esteemed father to whip you sideways if you get it wrong. And don’t look to your cousin for help!’ he added, ‘I have permission from his father too.’

Marcus Cicero Junior grimaced and began his arduous reading, not daring a glance at his cousin. He was very young, perhaps Octavius’ age. For a child of that renowned scholar and shunner of military arts, he had all the appearance of a burgeoning solider, Marcus thought idly, an activity which he promptly abandoned as soon as Tyrannion’s icy glare turned on him. He turned back to scroll he was sharing with Octavius, who somehow had the nerves to grin at him.

Marcus made it through his first lesson without tasting the whip, thanks in no small part to Octavius, who had whispered in his ear the meaning of words that stumped him. Tomorrow will be geography, the other boy had said sympathetically as their master left them to return to his dearly loved library.

The other boys crowded on Marcus; curiosity finally set free from the yoke of education.

‘Who are you?’ The older one, Quintus Cicero as Tyrannion had called him, cut to the matter. ‘Gaius didn’t mention a new classmate.’

‘I did, Quintus, to your cousin, and to you too if you hadn’t skipped. I know you didn’t have other training scheduled, whatever you told Tyrannion.’ protested Octavius.

Quintus shrugged and smiled, unperturbed by the accusation. ‘There was a reading of Catullus’ latest composition. Plus, six months of master Tyrannion and I’m beginning to miss Uncle Marcus’ hours-long lectures. Anyway, I was saying,’ He turned back to Marcus, ‘who are you?’

‘Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, at your service. Are you related to the general Quintus Tullius Cicero?’

‘My father.’ The other boy answered, pleasantly surprised. Perhaps he didn’t know, Marcus thought, how familiar everyone in Arpinium was with his family name. The Tullius Ciceros were folk-heroes, pride of the entire town, whether one was related to them or not. ‘He and my uncle are off to govern Cicilia this year, so here we are, slumming with Gaius. This is my cousin, son of “the Cicero”’ Quintus gestured to the younger boy.

‘Marcus Cicero. A pleasure.’ the stout boy said curtly, but not meanly.

Marcus clasped each of their arms. A warm feeling began to spread in his chest. Perhaps it was too soon to call them his friends, and to such noble children he must really have seemed a nobody. Nevertheless, they had survived Iliad book eighteenth with master Tyrannion together, and that ought to count for something, he thought with pleasure.

‘So where are you from? I don’t think I recognised your nomen.’ Marcus Cicero piped up as he shoved his clay tablet into a bag.

‘Arpinium. My family is of Equestrian rank, but we aren’t really known anywhere else.’ Marcus answered.

‘Oh! A fellow Arpinate!’ Cicero Junior cried, smiling. ‘Well, I was born in Rome - but my father always said to be proud of where we came from, since it is our deeds that will make us.’

‘Very wise.’ interjected Octavius.

‘How did you two meet, anyway?’ Cicero tilted his head, ‘I didn’t fancy Octavius here the sort to go out and make friends.’

‘No, I went out and collected henchmen, with you the way you are.’ Octavius wrinkled his nose. ‘Agrippa valiantly saved me from a wild horse, and thus distinguished himself as my future legate, once I’m consul.’

‘Eh, just as well. We’re the same age - when I’m senior consul in my proper year, you can be my second.’ Cicero shot back. Octavius narrowed his eyes.

‘That debate can wait another thirty years, lads.’ Quintus interrupted. ‘I need to shepherd all of you to the Campus Martius for our exercises, any time before the sun sets would be lovely.’ He turned to Octavius. ‘You’re coming?’ he asked casually, though his bright eyes were intent on Octavius’ face.

‘Yes, I’m feeling well. It would do me good to keep up physical activity as much as possible.’ he said. Marcus glanced at him, recalling the way he wrestled with breathing, but he was right about the need to exercise, breathing troubles or no. Besides, Marcus added to himself, he has me.

—

When the boys arrived at the Campus Martius, it was nearly noon. Even at its zenith, the winter sun was white and pale; it stretched long, thin fingers to warm itself upon the scarlets and golds of the Pompeian complex, a brand-new structure reigning over the open field.

They passed the complex’s amphitheatre, one of the largest ever built. Titling his head, Marcus blinked as bright colours assaulted his eyes. He guessed it must have been almost forty feet tall, for it comfortably housed two level of arches, each arch framing statues so brightly painted and alive they might have been actors frozen in a play with no ending. Yet the enormous structure was but an auxiliary, according to Pompey, who sought to show his piety by declaring that the tiered benches were merely steps leading up to a temple of Venus Victrix he had built at the top. This tidbit Marcus had heard from Rufus, and he thought it rather funny, if very cheeky.

Beyond the theatre lay a hundred-column colonnade and a Curia built to house large meetings of the Senate, though they rarely used it. Rufus had praised the exquisite murals lining the interior walls of the colonnade, which was open to the public. Marcus wondered whether the others might indulge his curiosity in seeing them for himself, but one glance at Octavius stilled his unspoken question. The other boy’s nose scrunched with distaste as he hurried past the far bend of the walls, not sparing the lavish complex any further attention.

They had shared a light lunch, but anything else would need to wait until they had run ten laps around the field. The other boys had explained to him the importance of the Campus as the congregating place for Roman youths of any notable rank. It was essential, Quintus said, with the wisdom of a teenaged boy towards his slightly younger siblings, that one showed their face on the Campus at least once in a while, and that their physical prowess was witnessed.

At first, Marcus had thought that Quintus exaggerated, and it could not be too different from frolicking with his friends among the meads and swards of Arpinium. After all, races and games were fun. Very soon he realised his mistake, for this was neither game nor sport, and the exercise wasn’t only for physical health.

On the massive field, there mingled boys of varying ages, younger than Octavius, older than Quintus, and numerous enough to fill a legionary century. Their presence was immediately noticed. The two Ciceros were popular, many boys came up to greet them with hearty pats and friendly kisses; but the reception for Octavius was decidedly more mixed. Few seemed to recognise him, at least as a friend. A handful nodded at him from afar, and to whom he waved in greeting, also distantly. Some glanced between him and the Ciceros curiously. A few older youths snickered and leered at him.

Marcus felt at once the pinprick of anger and the flush of shame. He remembered harbouring that kind of attention towards his friend, and for that he had only himself to blame, but for these boys’ attitude he fully blamed them. Octavius was a Roman child of high rank and pedigree, not to mention character, they should not be allowed to look upon him as if he were a pretty boy-slave in some filthy Greek verse. He frowned and glared, but it went unnoticed. Most took one look at him and immediately dismissed him as a squire or servant; some did stare at him, though none offered their acknowledgment.

For his part, Octavius shrugged off the response like water off a duck’s back. He mistook Marcus’ sour expression for offence at his own frosty treatment.

‘Never mind them.’ he said. ‘Simpletons. They can’t tell gold if it hit them in the head. A good number of them are almost guaranteed to fill the Senate benches though, I’ll introduce you some time.’

Marcus hoped the leering boys did not count among those, for if they were he thought he would rather go the rest of his life a country squire without friends and connections in high places.

While Marcus was still busy fuming, Octavius had already finished stretching. Getting into position on the widest track, he called to Marcus ‘Race you to the other end?’ And he took off without waiting for an answer.

Octavius won the first round, but he lost every single one after. He didn’t seem to mind, and instead settled down with Quintus to watch Marcus and Cicero Junior engage in a mock-duel with wooden swords. Quintus was saying something in his ear, and Marcus’ sword nearly flew out of his hands.

‘Focus!’ Cicero laughed. ‘Is that all we’ve got outside the city? Might as well give up and surrender to the barbarians then!’

He jabbed his wooden stick in a surprisingly quick flurry of attacks, thick arms moving with more speed than Marcus had judged. But if Marcus too had a hidden skill, it would be Lucius. His brother was by far the fastest hand in Arpinium, and they sometimes joked he had some Achillean blood. Marcus’ feet moved by themselves, honed from countless days of dodging Lucius’ flourishing swings. He turned just in time to bring his own sword down and knocked Cicero’s off its momentum. Almost immediately a knee came up to hit his elbow, and he too lost his sword. Within moments they were grappling in the dirt, swordsmanship forgotten.

‘Well-fought’ Cicero panted, as Marcus managed to wedge a knee onto his stomach. He stood, heaving the other boy up, both grinning.

‘Yes, the Parthians will die laughing!’ Quintus hollered from his perch. Next to him, Octavius laughed. He looked relaxed, if slightly burnt. His eyes twinkled, and the rush of victory was the sweetest Marcus had ever felt.

‘I’m famished.’ Cicero Junior said, wiping the sweat off his brow.

They made to leave, Marcus falling behind as he waited for Octavius, who had taken his sweet time getting up from his sprawl on the grass. Octavius stood, but before he could take a step, a boy, unknown to Marcus, stepped in front of him. He did not appear the violent sort, only taller than Octavius by a palm and rather thin, but his eyes spoke of resentment. Marcus glanced in the direction the Ciceros had left, but they were already striding away and did not seem to notice the newcomer. Quickly he trotted back to where Octavius now faced off the other boy.

‘... brave of you to show your face around here.’ He caught the end of what the stranger was saying as he neared.

‘Good day to you as well, Lucius Bibulus. I didn’t realise it required any bravery to come here, but it gladdens my heart to see so many of Rome’s youths’ Octavius half-spun, indicating the presence of their large audience, though no-one was paying them close attention. ‘are so filed with courage.’

‘Don’t play your games, Octavius. You and your great-uncle are traitors to Rome, you should have been exiled.’ said Bibulus. Octavius rolled his eyes.

‘And my regards to your father. May I remind Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus that Gaius Julius Caesar had never been condemned of even a petty crime by any court of Rome. In fact, all of his actions so far had been met with praise and honours from the Senate itself.’ Octavius shot back, before putting a hand on his breast in mock-horror. ‘And me, was he going to haul a child in front of the Centuriate court too?’

Bibulus snarled. ‘Leave my father out of it, Octavius.’

‘I suggest you heed your own counsel, Bibulus.’ Octavius drew up straight and managed to look down his nose at the other boy, despite his inferior height. ‘I know there is a head on your shoulders, so use it. The next time we speak, I expect you’ll be using your own words, hm?’ And with a sweet smile, he stepped around Bibulus.

Bibulus stood rigidly, fists balled at his sides, but he made no motion to follow. Marcus looked to Octavius, presently coming up to him. The other boy smiled at him reassuringly.

‘That was rude of him.’ Marcus said as they fell into step. Octavius shrugged. ‘Lucius Bibulus is a sad boy. Eager to be noticed by his own father, yet always pushed behind everything else, from his elder brothers to the man’s blind hatred of my great-uncle. Sad, but quite harmless. He might or might not attain public office, it depends on whether anybody remembers he exists. His father might not, his uncle - step-uncle - might. Either way, he’s easy enough to handle.’

‘You know that much about him?’ Marcus asked, startled.

‘Not him in particular, just things.’ said Octavius ‘I find, knowing how people tick will be what makes the difference for me. I can’t fight, and I’m beginning to suspect I won’t make much of a commander either. Both absolute necessary requirements for a statesman of Rome, or a man in general, we’re not Greek.’ He sighed. ‘If Bibulus had resorted to his fists and not his tongue, I expect that might have gone differently.’

‘I think it’s amazing,’ Marcus breathed, he said earnestly ‘you’re amazing’. Octavius glanced at him, then blushed and ducked his head.

—

‘Had fun, baby brother?’ As soon as Marcus passed the threshold of Rufus’ home, he found his cheeks pinched by a cooing Lucius.

‘-gerroff’ Marcus swatted his brother’s hands away. ‘Yeah, the grammarian was scary, he knows everything and sees everything. But I made friends with the Ciceros, I think.’

Lucius whistled. ‘Moving up in the world! And here I thought I was going to have to marry you off to a matron who could buy you enough votes for a Senate seat.’

Ignoring his brother, Marcus sank into a sofa. ‘How was politics?’ he said, glancing at Lucius’ cheerful face. ‘Did you finally meet Pompey the Great?’

‘As if.’ Lucius deflated. ‘There must be another way. Maybe I can lean on my dashing physique to become a governor’s aide? There is little chance of landing any sort of cadetship for me anyway. Too many men. Too little war. Why must there be peace now?’ he asked despondently.

Marcus said nothing for a while. The exercise in effusive politicking had begun to show its strain on his brother. He looked more tired and anxious now than Marcus had ever seen him. Neither of them was particularly good at this stuff. He felt a pang in his heart. In the quiet of Rufus’ atrium, the excitement of the day waned.

‘You’ll get your chance yet, brother. Remember Crassus’ humiliating defeat in Parthia? The legions won’t stay quiet for long, your chance to prove your mettle in a war will come soon enough.’ he offered. Lucius nodded, patting his head. Quietly, Marcus added to himself, at least I hope that’s where war will go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- If you're reading this, chances are you know what happened to the Ciceros. How come they never mentioned they were friends with Augustus? I'll try to resolve it in-universe, no promises whether it will be convincing.  
> \- How come Cicero never mentioned Octavius in his letters if he were friends with Cicero's son and nephew? Perhaps children's relationships were not a pressing concern at this time, or maybe it's in one of his lost letters. To be honest I haven't read all of his letters so I'm just hoping I haven't run afoul of anything.  
> \- Do you really need to think in a language to be fluent? In Masters of Rome Colleen suggested this, and I agree based on personal experience (English is a second language I learnt in school, so don’t be gentle with me, do point out any glaring mistake please)  
> \- 50 BC was a very confusing time. Who is doing what? Who’s betraying whom? I hope I got everything right, if I don’t I’ll have to go back and fix it (sorry). I made a relationship chart, sorry for the weeb style, it’s all I do. Zoom in for the text.  
>   
> \- Image not mine: Theatre of Pompey. Caesar was assassinated here. Augustus hated it.  
> 


	3. Children and Men (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Kalends: first day of the month (Ides: middle of the month - a full-moon). Romans numbered dates backwards from these marks, so “the 12th before the kalends of March” is our February 18th. Calendar weirdness doesn’t stop there...

Dear papa,

Have you been well? It is looking to be a beastly winter. I hope you are wearing your warmer toga, the one from Pedemontium? It is so windy here; the rain stabs my face like arrows. I would not be surprised if I see folks heading out in testudo formation.

We are both in good health and spirit, especially Marcus. He is probably already telling you in his letter, and you might find it hard to believe, so this is me backing him up. The little rascal really did wedge himself into a clique of noble children, one Octavius and two Ciceros (yes, our Arpinian darlings). We almost died for it, I had never seen anyone lose control of a horse like that kid, Octavius. But as fortune would have it, we are unhurt, and little Marcus gets to cosy up to some future senators. He studies with them now, and that’s about as good as we could get. I figured you would agree, so I raised no objections.

What was that the great advocate said? ‘The bonds of childhood are usually discarded along with the shedding of the purple-bordered toga.’ Well, I hope Marcus makes use of these kids’ favour while it lasts. Don’t worry, I’ll tell him.

As for me, I’m sorry, papa. I’m still standing in one place. Since we settled in Rufus’ home, I’ve taken to following him everywhere. After all, he is a client of Pompey. Out of the faces that he kisses every day, there has got to be a future legate or governor. And one of them would be looking for an aide or thin-striped tribune. But finding that man is more difficult than I thought.

I have only seen Pompey at a distance. He is awfully busy, many mornings Rufus and I sat in his atrium just watching an endless stream of senators and other important bodies filing in and out of his office. What might he be doing, you think? Rufus said they were going to move against Gaius Caesar. But that can’t be true. What has the man done, except killing some Gauls? And why would Pompey be involved, at any rate? He and Caesar are triumvirs. Wasn’t Pompey at some point Caesar’s son-in-law? And I thought the Senate hates Pompey. Do you know what is going on, papa?

I hope they are just gearing up for another Parthian war, to avenge Crassus’ defeat. That would mean more legions, more commissions. But I promise, this time next year I will be writing to you from a command tent, war or no.

Take care of yourself. Remember to keep the coals lit. Send mama my love.

Yours,  
Lucius

P.S. I missed our Parentalia. Marcus too. We went to see the Lupercalia here. And there was a great feast. But it’s not the same. 

—

Marcus huddled closer to the brazier, filled with dying coals. His limbs are stiff and cold from the climb up the Palatine, which was fast becoming part of his routine: rising with the sun, washing up with warm water, only to be frozen stiff again as he set out to breakfast with his friends. On most days, their grammar lessons with Tyrannion followed; but those were not the only academic obligations set for his friends: they were taught law, sports, basic oratory, even trained in sword work and martial arts. They shared most of these lessons, and seemed to have immediately counted Marcus among them. Marcus felt a little like a barnacle clinging to the tail of their vessel, but at the same time he was thankful for their generous friendship.

Next to him, Octavius lounged, one hand supporting his head, the other nursing his jaw, where a darkening bruise marred his fair skin. Every now and then he winced and shot a dark look at Cicero Junior, who only smirked in return.

‘It’s called divine punishment, Gaius Octavius. Thou shalt not cheat.’ Little Cicero, as the band sometimes called him to his irritation, gloated between mouthfuls of bread.

‘And thou shalt not falsely accuse thy peers, Cicero. I didn’t cheat. There was no rule saying one must not use ice in a fight.’ grumbled Octavius.

‘It’s obvious sportsmanship, needs no rule. Anybody would agree.’ said Cicero.

‘Then “anybody” ought to think a little harder before agreeing to things, just because they sound nice.’ Octavius shot back.

Quintus Cicero laughed, in the firelight his hazel eyes were almost honey-gold. They were looking at Octavius, warm and fond. ‘I don’t think anybody making the rules could have accounted for you, Gaius. Here.’ He leaned forwards, touching the other boy’s bruised cheek with a small pouch. ‘Ice, from the same stash you nicked to pour down cousin Marcus’ tunic. Keep it pressed tight, it will help.’

Octavius accepted the offering, but he still murmured darkly ‘He struck me in the face. With his hilt.’

‘Only because you startled me. And we both know I don’t need to strike you to win.’

Octavius opened his mouth. Before he could reply, Quintus held up his hands. ‘Peace, both of you. That was yesterday already, surely it’s time to move on? Besides, Gaius, today is twelve days to the kalends of March. We have civic law, remember? Wouldn’t you rather leave the task of humiliating cousin Marcus to someone else?’ he said.

Little Cicero muttered something that sounded like ‘traitor’, but the mention of legal lessons prescribed by his great father appeared to have deflated him. He shoved the rest of his breakfast in his mouth and chewed moodily.

This too, was becoming routine for Marcus: watching the good-natured sniping between Octavius and Cicero. He had not known them long, but as far as Marcus could tell, his friends never truly fought - not in the barbed way that Octavius treated those he considered contemptible, such as poor Bibulus.

Still, Octavius’ answering grin was full of glee. He sat up, reaching for a dried fig. He was fond of them, Marcus noted. An absurd vision of feeding them directly to him popped uninvited into Marcus’ head; hastily he picked one up and put it in Octavius’ outstretched hand, perishing the thought.

The embers of coal danced in Octavius’ grey eyes as he spoke, still grinning. ‘Yes, that reminds me. We get to observe a trial from the defendant’s side today, don’t we? Caesius said the charge was, of all things, black magic.’ He laughed. ‘Quintus, tell us again about the Cresimus trial. I don’t think Marcus has heard it yet.’

Of the four of them, Octavius was the only to have genuinely enjoyed learning about the convoluted and contradictory rules and precedents that made up the Roman legal system. Under the droning of Caesius, the aspiring aedile who had been tasked with ‘babysitting’ them, Cicero Junior always looked as though he was praying for a spontaneous death; the fantastic irony of which was not lost on anybody, considering who his father was. Quintus Cicero, on the other hand, was familiar with the topic, well-read as Marcus had discovered him to be, but he always tagged along, no doubt to laugh at his cousin. I fared surprisingly well, Marcus had congratulated himself the first time they asked him to come. He could keep up if he focused, and the dense scrawl of the law-tablets did not run away from him as he was afraid they would. It also helped that listening to Octavius complain about how a ruling should have gone another way was wildly entertaining.

‘On the day of the trial, the accused appeared with an entourage of farmhands and oxen, along with this entire collection of farming tools, which he pointed to as proof for his honest competence. He was unanimously acquitted.’ Quintus finished recounting the trial of Cresimus, a farmer accused of using witchcraft to enhance his crops beyond those of his competitors’.

‘I don’t understand why charges of black magic still hold any water. We saw them in Arpinium from time to time, and they were always ludicrous. If such things worked, we wouldn’t need augurs and record-keeping’ Marcus commented.

‘If only every Roman had a tenth of your good sense, Marcus. Once I’m in charge, I’ll outlaw idiocy.’ This was, of course, Octavius,

‘But couldn’t it be just a little bit true? Why else do we all wear these?’ said Cicero, taking his golden bulla, the protective pendant of boyhood, from underneath his tunic.

Octavius shrugged. ‘For show. It’s just theatre. Why do you think the legions consult chickens before they set out for battle? If men decided their hearts could only be strengthened by the sights of pecking hens, who are we to deny them?’

Cicero frowned. ‘Isn’t that blasphemy? What if that is actually how the gods show their will? Whenever they failed to heed the chickens, the battles always went wrong.’

‘Because they thought it would go wrong.’ said Octavius impatiently. ‘And it’s not blasphemy, I’m just saying we confuse idiocy for piety.’

Cicero still looked doubtful, but he said no more, for the sunlight was emerging, reminding them that they would be late to their assignment if they tarried any longer.

—

The Roman Forum was partially filled when they arrived, meetings and trials of various sorts were taking place in the open plaza despite the early hour and light drizzle.

The sun had disappeared again, leaving the usually resplendent forum in a grey cast, as though colours had been stripped from its temples and tall plinths, dulled by years not yet passed.

Off to one side, the grand Basilica Julia stood incomplete and despondent, its promise of a comfortable shelter for public purposes yet to be fulfilled. Octavius cast the construction a wistful look and hugged the folds of his toga closer to himself. He had categorically refused the leather parasol offered him by his fretting mother, citing the useful device’s reputation for marking effeminacy. It’s odd, Marcus thought, how he at once disdained and coveted the good opinion of others. Perhaps it was part of his survival instincts, different as he was from an exemplary Roman boy.

They met their favourite jurist-cum-babysitter, Caesius, at the far western edge, in front of the Temple of Saturn. The trial was relatively minor, as neither side had any notable standing. However, the grave accusations proved entertaining enough to draw an assembly of seventy-to-eighty wealthy looking citizens. Counting the plaintiff, the accused, the presiding praetor, and their staff, the crowd away almost a hundred strong. Most were seated on their own folding chairs; some had come with their families and servants. Public trials were a well-received spectator sport, almost as much as chariot races.

Not having any formal role, and underage besides, the boys settled themselves on the unfinished steps of the Basilica Julia to watch, as the plaintiff’s advocate thundered his opening speech.

‘Behold, citizens of Rome, the malice wrought by Meriadocus’ treachery!’ At the defendant’s feet he threw a bundle of rotten wheat. Even from this distance, Marcus could see brown blotches covering every stalk. The affluent crowd ooh’d and aah’d, many wrinkled their noses in disgust.

‘Axius is an honest and hard-working man. Long he worked his fields, through sun or hail he worked to feed Rome. And richly did Ops reward him! Year after year his harvest has been plentiful and healthy, until this very season. What changed, you asked? Nothing other than this jealous scoundrel moving in next door!’ The advocate’s meaty finger never left its position pointing at the defendant, even as he turned to ensure he met the eyes of every man in the assembly.

‘Whence did this stranger come? Why, conscript members of the jury, not even ten years ago he was a Gallic slave!’ His hand pushed, a textbook-perfect execution of the orator’s shunning gesture. ‘How many of you have those in your household? Illiterate, aren’t they? Thieves? Liars? That is if they spoke any Latin!’ Many laughs and understanding nods popped among the men. The advocate drew up, satisfied.

‘We have all heard the tales, of how the long-haired Gauls used witchcraft and other monstrous methods to torment Rome’s legions. Who is to say they would give up their savage way of life once they clad themselves in the facade of adopted civility?’ he said, voice shuddering with fear.

‘And I don’t know about you, but who ever has heard of a slave earning his freedom after so short a time in honest service? I say, something has been afoot with this Gaul from the very start!’

While the advocate continued to speculate on the evil nature of the Gaul, Marcus squinted at the discarded bundle of wheat. ‘That’s just rust’ he said to Octavius, ‘a kind of fungus that tends to affect winter wheat. It’s a particularly severe case, sure, but no black magic.’ He shrugged when the other boys, overhearing, looked at him in surprise. ‘I’m a country bumpkin’ he said.

Octavius nodded. ‘That’s not surprising. So our defendant was framed. But why? Meriadocus can’t be a threat to Axius’ business. He’s a minor farmer, not to mention a new hand. And who set him up? Axius?’ he wondered aloud, nose scrunching in his ‘thinking-but-not-too-hard’ face, ‘Why would a man sabotage his own crops just to set someone up?’ he asked, eyes roaming. ‘Unless ‘tis he who coveted. Ah.’

‘The wife, isn’t she?’ Quintus leaned in from Octavius’ other side. ‘I can see why. She’s beautiful.’

Octavius scoffed. ‘Yes, typical.’

Marcus followed their gaze: off a distance from them sat a woman, directly behind the defendant. She was indeed beautiful, though she did not look Roman, or even Italian. Her copper-red hair framed a fair face, blue yes flitting back and forth among the assembled men, confused and afraid. Most probably, he thought, she was at least guilty of one charge laid against her husband: that of being unable to understand formal Latin. She sat by herself, a lone and mute defender for her husband.

‘I see our accused didn’t have the good sense to bring witnesses and evidence, as Cresimus did.’ Marcus commented to his friends.

‘Nor the money to hire a halfway-decent advocate.’ Octavius shook his head at their minder, who now stood to speak. Between his signature droning voice and the wooden gestures, it was almost impossible for Marcus to tell that he was recounting the same trial and set precedent Quintus did.

‘He didn’t even try to spin any nice tale to launder Meriadocus’ character.’ said Quintus.

‘Yes, poor Gaul is finished. He is going to be convicted and executed, leaving his accuser to take the wife, one way or another.’ Octavius agreed.

‘Should we help him then?’ Out of nowhere, the question came unbidden to Marcus’ lips. Both boys turned to look at him as though he had grown a second head. ‘I mean, it’s a waste to kill a man for that kind of charge.’ said Marcus, shrugging. He didn’t think the could say something like ‘it was the right thing to do’. What was right? Marcus did not know. I’m not learned in philosophy like Quintus, and I’m not quick-witted like Gaius, he thought.

Maybe the Gaul did sabotage Axius’ crops, just not with magic. Maybe he had committed deeds more hideous than this, and had gone unpunished. Marcus looked at him. Meriadocus was monstrously tall and broad. Menacing, but not much like a witch. Turning to his friends and meeting Octavius’ curious gaze, he asked again, slightly differently ‘Can we help him?’

The other boy blinked. ‘Well, we have as much say as women, you know that. We can’t exactly go up there and take over for dear Caesius.’ he said.

‘Yes, I guess we can’t save him.’ Marcus sighed.

Octavius sniffed. ‘That’s not what I said.’ Then he did the strangest thing: he pinched the bruise on his face viciously, wincing as fresh tears filled his eyes. Hopping off from their shared perch, he broke his own declaration on what was and was not allowed: he swept like the wind up the temporary platform, only stopping when he came to Caesius.

Marcus stared with the rest of the crowd as Octavius caught the edge of Caesius’ toga and insisted that he be presented as a character witness for Meriadocus. Apparently, the man had heroically saved him from robbery and certain death, or worse, when he carelessly strayed into the unsavoury streets of the Subura the day prior. Large drops of tears rolled down his rosy cheeks and gathered on the ugly bruise. His imploring eyes searched out those of every man in the assembly. His family frame wracked with tremors, but his voice held firm with determination.

The story he told of his misadventure and subsequent rescue was so vivid, for a moment Marcus thought he himself had imagine Cicero Junior squealing and knocking his wooden sword into Octavius’ jaw at yesterday’s practice. The boy in question now watched the unfolding scene with a mixture of offence and hilarity. Quintus’ mouth was pressed in an awkward line, as though as was biting the inside of his cheek. He shook slightly, eyes brimming with mirth.

The assembled jury softened their gazes at this lovely patrician child, so plaintively pleasing for the life of a good Samaritan. Some of the matrons and daughters in the crowd began to weep.

‘I have nothing to offer but the clumsy words of a child, yet I pray to the Vesta that you would consider this when you pass judgement upon a good man.’ Octavius said, concluding his tale. He then clung to Caesius’ arm and whispered something to him, as though begging him to save Meriadocus.

The advocate, who had stood frozen to the spot with the same stupefied look that Marcus was certain was mirrored on his own, nodded after a brief pause. For all that he lacked in talent as an orator, Caesius was not dim-witted. ‘Conscript members of the jury, as you heard from the innocent mouths of babes, Meriadocus is a merciful and kind man.’ He seemed to be suddenly imbued with a foreign strength as he spoke. ‘You do not sit here as old wives judging cattle and spinning tales. You sit here as citizens of Rome, the shining beacon to the rest of the world. Our law is the fairest in all the lands, it falls upon all equally! Could anywhere else boast the same integrity? If today you flogged an honourable man to nothing but bones, what would you tell your children? That you were afraid of fanciful tales spun to frighten them? And let it be known that even children saw through the ruse!’ Caesius laid a hand on Octavius’ shoulder. ‘Do you sully Rome this day?’ cried he.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as Caesius continued to drive his point home. At one point the plaintiff jumped off his chair in a fit of outrage, and a scuffle ensued before two lictors managed to restrain him.

Octavius quietly slipped from the dais as calls were made for the jurors to inscribe their votes on clay tablets. As he approached he grinned at Marcus, tear tracks still wet on his face.

‘If you’re not a noble, Gaius, I think you could have made a name for yourself as an actor. You would do Aristophanes proud.’ said Quintus as he sat down among them again.

‘I’m not, Quintus, and even if I were, why would I play a part written by someone else?’ replied Octavius, smug. He turned to Marcus, grey eyes clear and expectant. Marcus cleared his throat and offered him a bashful smile. ‘Thank you, Gaius.’ was all he could manage.

‘You’re welcome, Agrippa.’ Octavius answered with a smirk.

‘Is that what you did, when you delivered the eulogy for your grandmother?’ Cicero Junior piped up from Marcus’ other side. ‘Right here in the Forum. Philippus gushed about how you showed great promise as an orator — but you actually did... that?’

Octavius looked mortally offended. ‘Of course not,’ he said, ‘she was my grandmother. Besides, oratory is a different skill.’

‘ABSOLVO.’ rang the praetor’s voice through the crowd. The counting was done, and the verdict almost-unanimous: Meriadocus was to walk a free man.

‘Wait,’ said Cicero Junior to them, ‘was he guilty or innocent?’

‘Who cares?’ cried Octavius.

—

The rest of February passed in a strange blur of excitement and bliss, as if the entire month was an extension of that fateful day early in the month. In a way, Marcus thought, the crash-landing of their meeting was the first beat of a song, and since hearing it he had been caught in a happy dream of wonder and adventure. A rather mundane one in retrospect, not quite worthy of an epic, though there were many hours of pouring over them under the loving tutelage of Tyrannion.

The dreamy idyll came to an abrupt halt on the kalends of March. The month of Mars bore down on them like rolling thunder on a grey day.

The day was a religious holiday. Spared from all studies and cajoled into a pony race by little Cicero, the boys were gone all morning, and upon returning they ran into an agitated Philippus right in the atrium. He was pacing and ranting, but stopped as they entered.

Too late, Octavius had already caught the tail end of the tirade, and the pleased grin from having beaten at least Cicero Junior slipped from his face, replaced by a darkening frown. ‘Papa Philippus? What happened at the Senate meeting? What was that about Uncle Caesar?’ he asked.

Philippus sighed. ‘Little Gaius. Young Agrippa. Quintus and Marcus Cicero. You shouldn’t have to concern yourself with matters like these at your age. You should go and be merry! But I don’t suppose you will now, once Gaius knows Caesar is involved.’ He fell heavily onto a sofa. ‘And you’ll know sooner or later anyway. It’s flying out of our hands.’

‘What is?’ Octavius asked, frown deepening. On quick feet he strode and sat down next to his stepfather. The Ciceros followed him, arranging themselves opposite the pair quietly. Their faces mirrored Octavius’ expression, if not more severe.

Flung into this sudden tension, Marcus felt awkward, out-of-place, ill-suited. He half-wished he had excused himself, but, Octavius was upset, so he wasn’t going to leave. Gamely he planted himself next to the Ciceros and listened.

‘The Populares and Optimates, of course.’ Philippus said. ‘Manifested in the persons of your great-uncle, Cato, Marcellus, Ahenobarbus,...’ He trailed off. ‘People are switching sides so fast it’s getting difficult to keep track.’

‘Who is switching now?’ prompted Octavius.

‘Curio, the Plebeian Tribune. Pompey. Well, maybe.’ The last bit he tacked on as the Ciceros gasped. Octavius looked grim.

‘Pompey the Great. His jealousy was always going to best him. Is he openly siding with Cato at last? Did he press the Senate to take away Uncle Caesar’ command and provinces?’

Even Marcus could tell this observation was too precocious. Philippus looked unfazed. ‘Close. It wasn’t Pompey’s hand that cast the stone. In fact, he was gracious, humble, and suitably sorrowful when Marcellus praised his character to draw a contrast with Caesar.’ said Philippus. ‘He declared Caesar’s Gallic campaign and mustering of those legions to be unlawful, and moved that the Senate should not only refuse his request to stand for consul in absentia, but further that they should strip him of his imperium, his provinces, and his army forthwith.’

Silence met Philippus’ declaration. He continued ‘I, Lucius Piso, Lepidus, and others tried to shout him down, of course. I pointed out that the very same Senate had voted for all the honours and awards heaped upon Caesar for his victories. But when ever did that lot learn shame? And they always had the advantage of numbers.’

‘And did this motion succeed?’ Octavius’ eyes flashed.

‘No, but it didn’t fail either.’ answered Philippus. ‘Curio vetoed it.’

Octavius actually laughed. ‘Curio! Good man! And good on uncle for owning him.’ He looked at this stepfather. ‘But that wasn’t the end of it?’

‘No, that would have been too kind. The whole place descended into chaos afterwards. It would make your playground appear the table of kings in comparison. Ahenobarbus just would not stop shouting. Many accusations of eating shit were thrown.’ said Philippus, then he leaned forward, grinning, his frustration began to diminish. ‘Curio made an ingenious move. He insisted, since Caesar was Pompey’s equal, the Senate ought to afford him and Pompey the same treatment. If they were to strip Caesar of his army and provinces, he said, then in the same breath they must do the same to Pompey. He would exercise his veto otherwise.’ Now it was Philippus’ turn to laugh. ‘They look on Pompey’s face, hah.’

Octavius smiled, but he didn’t join, and neither did the Ciceros. ‘That was perhaps a bit reckless. If Pompey was just watching the bloodbath before, now his hand is in it.’ said Quintus, his hands tapping in agitation. ‘If Uncle Marcus were here, he wouldn’t have let that happen.’

‘Surely you don’t mean the Great Advocate would let them condemn my uncle? He did nothing wrong.’ Octavius’ remonstration was quick and sharp.

‘No, of course not.’ said Quintus peaceably, ‘I simply meant the entire debacle wouldn’t have happened. Both sides endangered our republic with their aggression.’

‘Well, it’s true enough that Cicero’s absence had destabilised everything.’ Octavius compromised. ‘I assume Uncle Caesar will know soon?’ he asked his stepfather.

‘Yes, Curio sent a dispatch to him almost as soon as the meeting ended.’

‘But the stalemate will not last.’ said Octavius.

‘It will not.’ Philippus agreed. ‘Even if Curio holds to his veto, he won’t be tribune forever. One way or another, sooner or later, the chips will fall.’

All were quiet for a while. Quintus Cicero turned away from the rest, his gaze resting on the pool of Philippus’ atrium. Marcus Cicero Junior gnawed on his cheek worriedly; he glanced first at his cousin, then at Octavius, then at the doors, as if he expected someone to come bursting in at any moment. Philippus sipped on his wine, he was no longer agitated, but he looked resigned and tired. Octavius was still, lashes hiding his extraordinary eyes, his hands were steepled on his knees and his face as calm as marble.

Marcus hadn’t moved for the entire discuss, the details of which were lost on him. Nevertheless, he thought he understood the crux of their troubles: the impending confrontation between Pompey and Caesar, their own allegiances, or lack thereof, and the decisions that had to be made, every choice a gamble of the highest stakes. Worst of all, he realised, for his friends it would not even be their choices to make. Should the conflict come to pass, they would be forced to follow whichever course their families took.

Selfishly he thought, let the great men tear each other apart, but I hope at least it won’t come to war. If Caesar has to be cast down, let him be cast down, but spare Octavius the grief. Yet even as he silently said these prayers, he knew them to be futile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I’m no classicist. I’m just telling myself a story, so please take everything I said with a grain of salt.
> 
> \- I actually started this chapter thinking I’d cover the Senate kerfuffle. I went and re-read Colleen’s chapter on this (book 5) and decided it’d be an insult to the chapter for me to attempt it. So instead you get this: a children’ drama with some parallels with the tragedies of the bigger folks. That’s probably how it’s going to be for the rest of this part.
> 
> \- I can’t recommend Masters of Rome enough. You don’t need to read every book, and Octagrippa is almost canon in 6-7.
> 
> \- Some background illustrations. These are NOT mine.
> 
> A corner of the Forum, showing the Basilica Julia completed by Augustus.  
> 
> 
> A trial in the Forum. Trials could take place anywhere, but for want of better places, they were usually outdoors.  
> 
> 
> \- Octavius and Agrippa at their ages in 50 BC (12-13 and 13-14) vs how they might be in 46 BC (16-17 and 17-18). I’m no artist, and anime-bust during Zoom calls I’m supposed to be paying attention to is about all that I can do.


	4. Children and Men (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited the earlier chapters, though I didn’t change anything too major. This is my first piece of writing that’s more than a few hundred words of drabble, and it shows. To be honest this might get rewritten at some point, and if I were a reader I would wait for it to finish first. But if you do decide to stick around, thank you and I welcome comments of any sort.

‘Must we really do this?’ Cicero Junior grumbled between the chattering of his teeth. The morning was pale and grey; scattered sleet prickled the boys’ faces as they walked.

‘Yes Cicero! If your father were here, he would agree!’ Octavius’ voice called from the head of the group, carried by the wailing wind. He gamely walked on, clutching the hood of his cloak to his head as they exited the sheltered valley of the Forum and into the open field of the Campus Martius.

Marcus followed closely behind, rain-cloak secured about his shoulders. He was used to the harsher winters at the foot of the Apennines, yet even he recoiled at this thrashing rain, as if Olympus itself were commanding them to desist.

If such were the gods’ will, they might need to find another way to tell Octavius, Marcus thought. His friend was insistent on witnessing at least one debate on the matter of Caesar before the Senate came to a resolution — though there was no imminent risk of that, according to Philippus. In any case, even Tyrannion could not dissuade Octavius, and after being subjected many times to very reasonable arguments, finally allowed them one half-morning for their quest.

‘They don’t even talk about anything else! It’s been the exact same argument every meeting since the kalends! Didn’t you hear what your stepfather said?’ Cicero Junior refused to give up his protests, but neither did his steps falter. ‘What is the point?!’ he yelled.

Octavius did not answer, or perhaps he couldn’t. The wind was even more vicious as they made it to the Campus proper, any further protest would have to wait until they reached the shelter of their destination: the Curia Pompeia.

It would have been much easier for them, as well as the rest of the Senate, if the traditional meeting house was still standing, since that had stood right in the middle of the Forum. Sadly the place had burnt down two years prior, and now everybody was forced to make the trek out here for any meeting that required a full-house.

Nobody was happy about the arrangement, except Pompey himself: the Curia Pompeia conveniently sat across a villa he had tacked onto the tail of his complex; but more importantly, it sat outside the pomerium - the sacred boundary that no magistrate or general could cross without losing his imperium, his army command, and his governorship. To Marcus the law had seemed very silly, but when he mentioned it to Octavius, the other boy simply shrugged and said ‘It can be a useful weapon - all legislation is.’

It certainly proved useful for Pompey: he could attend all important meetings, while retaining full control of his legions and provinces. And if the magnificent statue of himself in the Curia now presided over those meetings, that was a simple bonus.

Whatever opinion Marcus might have had on Pompey’s manoeuvre, it was then eclipsed by his gratitude for the man’s grand portico as they stumbled up marble steps into a thicket of Corinthian columns. Among the blues and golds, a sizeable crowd already gathered, undeterred by the mean weather. Though perhaps they did not have a choice, as most of them seemed to be servants and scribes, forced to make camp here to keep their affluent masters up-to-date with latest events while sparing them the chill.

Octavius certainly could afford to do the same, if he did not already have access to first-hands accounts from his stepfather. Marcus glanced at him. Cicero Junior spoke the truth, there was no great need for them to be here, but Octavius’ insistence on taking an early interest in politics was appropriately patrician and thus indulged. And it seemed he was not alone in his precociousness: Marcus spotted a handful of children in the mob — one or two even seemed familiar. He squinted at them, but a soft tap on his arm stole his attention away.

Marcus turned and was faced with a disheveled Octavius. The other boy’s hair lay flat on his head, the normally soft curls whipped into a miserable tangle by the wind and rain. His face was even paler than usual. Marcus was at once concerned and amused. On one hand, even if one did not know about his breathing troubles, Octavius could not in any way be described as sturdy and healthy on the best of days. But on the other, he did look then like a drenched cat, and a very unhappy one. He tugged on Marcus’ sleeve impatiently. ‘A hand, please, Agrippa? I can’t see anything from here.’

Wisely clamping down on the temptation to laugh, Marcus nodded. There was no significant gap in the crowd, and in any case he doubted Octavius would appreciate being squeezed into a mass of damp bodies. Well then. Bending his knees, Marcus wrapped both arms around Octavius’ waist, and in one smooth motion he hoisted the other boy onto an empty brazier plinth. Octavius squeaked, startled, but from the superior height he quickly realised the sense of the solution and offered no protest, opting instead to focus his attention on the unfolding meeting.

Cicero Junior was staring at them incredulously. Shrugging, Marcus stretched out his hands, one eyebrow raised his question. To this the other boy’s face sagged in comical disgust, and with one great heave he lifted himself to share Octavius’ perch.

Chuckling at his friends’ antics, Marcus leaned back against the plinth and cranked his own neck to catch a glimpse of the action. There was enough space between the heads for him to make out Pompey’s statue and some tiers of steps, filled with senators. Marcus could not tell their number from this vantage, though it must have been great if the noise was anything to go by.

The tension in the room was palpable even to those outside. From amidst a current of discontent murmuring, a voice leapt: ‘He’s another Lucius Cornelius Sulla!’ it cried. ‘Mark my words, he will march on Rome! He has no regard for our tradition, no thought for the mos-maiorum handed into the safekeeping of this House. Tell me, conscript fathers, is it the Roman way to war on peaceful peoples to enrich ourselves? No! But it apparently is the Caesarean way. Is there any among us who has not heard of his infamous cruelty and greed? Of how he burned down entire villages to plunder their treasures? And how he sold millions of Gauls into slavery, making a tidy profit while assigning us the blame? It is no wonder he had the loyalty of his easily-bought rabble army—’

A harsh laugh cut off the speaker mid-sentence. ‘Speak like you didn’t accept the spoils into the treasury and vote for all the thanksgivings, Marcellus. Like a dog biting the hand feeding it—’

Several voices rose up at the same time, and Marcus could barely make out anything intelligible, save for the insults. A few moments passed in chaos before a rumbling voice rose above the rest. ‘Order, he will be heard. I repeat, the junior consul will be heard, it is his right.’ it growled. ‘Piso, wait for your turn. For pity’s sake Messella, sit down or go home.’

‘I thank you, senior consul.’ Marcellus continued. ‘As I was saying, banditry was how Gaius Caesar managed to wreath himself in such immense wealth that he could afford to buy entire hoards of senators and tribunes, as sitting here on this very floor. Oh come now, don’t protest, you know who you are!’ almost at once he began yelling again. ‘Sitting here and spitting on the very laws they vowed to protect. How much did it cost, we wondered. Tell us, Curio, what was your price? Come, let the rest of us gawk a little on your master’s deep pockets, hm?’

‘Hear hear!’ the crowd thundered its approval, but not without meeting some resistance in the answering jeers.

Someone else was speaking now, his deep voice slashing out words in staccato, but the background din did not wane and it was difficult for Marcus to discern what he was saying. Marcus furrowed his brows and. tried to focus on the voice as it rose higher: ‘...a single meep from any of the boni when it comes to one of their own. Gaius Caesar wiped out entire tribes, yes, entire tribes of traitors, hands red in Roman blood! Everything Gaius Caesar did was in the defence of Rome and in full view of the gods. His actions might be harsh, but never unjust. Why didn’t you compare that to one of your own, Cato? Or are you still going to pretend that Marcus Brutus—’ A loud clank resounded, as if someone had knocked something over. ‘—that Marcus Brutus did not lock helpless citizens in their meeting house until they starved to death?’

‘—slander, Curio, I did not—’ someone else called.

‘Simply because they could not repay the compound interest his minions demanded.’ Curio ignored the other voice. ‘Did any of you boni, ye good men - as you call yourself - do anything about it? Did you also rise up in defence of those little people then? If so I missed it!’ he cried.

‘How dare you, Curio! They didn’t die by my orders! I did not know!’ The other voice - Brutus’ - now rose to a hoarse shout, fuelled with white-hot anger.

‘That’s rich, Marcus Brutus. Did you also not know when silver magically appear in your and your father-in-law’s purse? That’s impossible, isn’t it? All of Rome knows of your financial competence.’ Curio mocked. ‘But I can see easily enough where you learnt your hypocrisy. Will you be opening a school, Cato? Scipio? What about you, noble consul?’

Answering Curio was a roaring avalanche of voices, each clambering over the other.  
‘— arse-licking traitor, arrest him!’  
‘I dare you! Arrest a tribune of the plebs, I dare you!’

‘... only the malicious letters of Cicero!’ Brutus’ attempt to clear his name could barely be heard.

‘Enough! I will have order! Cato, just shut your mouth! Lictors, stay where you are. Order, order!’ once again the senior consul tried to wrestle control of the situation, his elderly vocal cords stretching to their limits, banging uselessly like a fist on a tidal wave.

Marcus glanced up at his friends. Both were transfixed: Cicero seemed mildly horrified, while Octavius stared unblinking at the scene, his face hard and cold.

It came suddenly to Marcus why Octavius insisted on coming: it was not enough to know what transpired, he needed to hear every insult, see every snarl, remember every guilty flinch. He wanted to be prepared, didn’t he? To grasp every advantage possible, before the time came for him to face these powerful men himself. He barely blinked, but his knuckles were white on the stone edge beside Marcus. He was afraid. Under the thin veneer of light-hearted bravado, he was actually rather under-confident. The realisation hit Marcus like an icy lance to the heart.

The uproar inside was dying down to a barely contained muttering. By some miracle or by the reliable bundle of sticks that lictors wore by their side, the senior consul seemed to have re-gained mastery of the floor.

‘As I said, senior consul, I will not retract my veto under any condition other than that which I have repeatedly raised. And here I will state it again for the benefit of those among the conscript fathers with selective memory.’ Curio declared, calm and stentorian. ‘Whatever is done to Gaius Caesar must at once be done to Gnaeus Pompeius. Such is right and just!’

Before anything else could be said or thrown, the senior consul grabbed his chance and bellowed: ‘Dismissed! This meeting is adjourned! Go home, all of you! Don’t come back until somebody has a thing to say that I can’t get from a bag of cats, shoo!’

Those gathered in front of the Curia began to part like waves upon the bow of a ship. Out marched a white stream of senators, resplendent in their purple-bordered toga, noble faces a matching shade of fury.

Leading the first group to leave was a very tall man. He strode with long steps, his back erect and his head held high. He spoke in quick, harsh tones to those around him and did not spare any in the crowd a glance, though many gazed at him in awe.

‘Marcus Porcius Cato.’ murmured Octavius from above Marcus, though not to him. Octavius stared at the man’s back for a few seconds, then he shook his head and looked away as if dismissing the leader of men from thought. Finding it curious, Marcus opened his mouth to ask Octavius about Cato, but a vaguely familiar voice interrupted him. ‘Why are you here, Octavius? Hasn’t your uncle filled this place with enough rats?’

It was the boy from the Campus, that first day, Marcus immediately realised. Lucius Bibulus was his name. Then he had spoken to Octavius with barely restrained hostility, and that much had not changed. Octavius frowned, he glanced at the other boy as one might a buzzing fly. ‘None of your business, Bibulus. Just go away, you’re blocking my air.’ he said.

Bibulus’ face reddened and twisted in anger. ‘This is no place for you. Your father is dead, you’re not even a senatorial son anymore. Your stepfather has sons of his own, he won’t adopt you.’ he spat. ‘And your beloved uncle doesn’t want you. Except maybe as a puer delicatus - bet you would like that.’ The last bit he said with a contemptuous leer.

Marcus felt himself froze; fury grabbed him by the throat, burning all the air from his lungs. His arms raised, but before they made contact with Bibulus to shove him away, Octavius’ hand gripped his shoulder. The other boy barked an airy laugh, the sound was shrill and completely unlike his normal voice. Leaning down, he stage-whispered to Bibulus: ‘They are not going to discuss your father anytime soon, you know. Actually, they probably have forgotten all about poor Bibulus Senior’s little scuffle with the Parthians.’ Marcus looked up at him, but Octavius spared him no attention. The other boy’s eyes glinted like the edge of a knife. ‘It’s only expected. Who would care about a Bibulus, when Caesar exists?’ he concluded with a sweet smile.

Bibulus snarled. Sensing danger, Marcus hurried took a side-step to put himself between the boy and Octavius. At the same moment, another shadow fell upon them, then a tired voice spoke, stern but with surprising gentleness: ‘There you are, Lucius. I thought I had lost you. Come, you can talk to your friends later, your mother is waiting for us.’

Marcus looked up, before them stood a tall, lean man with dark, closely-cropped hair. He also wore a purple-bordered toga, signifying his rank as one of the senators. If Marcus were asked to instantly imagine a patrician, this man would match the mental image almost perfectly. To Marcus’ young eyes, the man appeared the embodiment of ancient nobility: from the angular face, the prominent nose, to the permanent frown etched upon his handsome face, he might have been at home among the rows of statues lining the Forum, so proper and proud did he look. A Roman of the Romans, his father would say. If his image was ruined by anything, it was the sadness in his amber eyes.

The man turned his bright gaze on them, more precisely on Octavius, and his frown deepened, the troubled look fleeing beneath a mask of cool indifference. He said nothing. Octavius’ perch on the plinth allowed him to be level-eyed with the man; and they stared at each other unblinking, without exchanging a single word or even the customary courtesy.

There was no possible danger from such a noble and unassuming man, yet every hair on Marcus’ neck stood up, his skin tingled with an anxious desire to interrupt the silent conversation. His hands twitched. He was not afraid of the man, but something shapeless in his mind recoiled at him. He wished the man gone, away from Octavius, but could find no reason to speak.

Someone moved. Bibulus. He was turning away from them, tugging on the nobleman’s arm and throwing a sneer at Octavius. The man blinked and stepped out of his trance. It must have only been a few seconds, since no one else remarked on the strange hostility between man and boy, one that made the exchange between Bibulus and Octavius seemed positively cordial. ‘Ah, young Gaius Octavius. You must be waiting for Philippus? I’m sure he will be out shortly.’ the man said, polite and cool. ‘Well, excuse us. Little Lucius and I have a prior appointment.’

He nodded to Cicero Junior, recognising the boy; then, throwing a disinterested glance at Marcus, he departed with Bibulus in tow.

‘He, uh, your friend, Gaius?’ Cicero Junior cleared his throat and asked tentatively.

Octavius gave a startled laugh. ‘It would have been closer to the truth if you had said mortal enemy, except I don’t have enemies. And I doubt a senator like Marcus Junius Brutus thinks much of a child twenty-odd years his senior. No, he fancies himself made for much greater things.’

‘That was Brutus?’ Marcus turned away from the departing man’s back and looked at Octavius. His friend’s face was drawn in a scowl.

‘The one whose name you would have heard among the shouting, yes. He spends all his time dithering between his quasi-familial ties to my uncle and his true allegiance to — no, not Cato — to his own inflated sense of self-worth, I’m sure.’ Octavius answered. ‘And now it has come back to bite him in the arse.’ He laughed harshly, the expression marring his angelic features.

‘You don’t like him.’ Marcus observed rather uselessly.

‘Plain enough.’ Octavius conceded. ‘He has always rubbed me the wrong way, even before he showed his true colours and started yapping at the heels of both the boni and Uncle Caesar.’

‘Are you sure you’re not just jealous of him? There are rumours he might be Caesar’s actual son, after all. Father said they are still very close.’ said Cicero. Marcus whipped around to gape at him. Cicero clamped his mouth shut, realising his mistake, but he was too proud and too well-taught to retract his words, especially if he felt they were true. He drew himself up and looked away.

A stifling silence hung about them. Marcus chanced a look at Octavius: he was frowning, his slender brows drawn tight and his lips pursed in consternation. He stared at his own dangling feet and refused to acknowledge Cicero’s remark. Marcus opened his mouth and closed it again, not knowing what to say.

Fortunate for him, Octavius shook himself out of brooding. ‘You are right, Cicero, that was unseemly.’ he muttered. He looked up at them, prior turmoil disappearing under the water-calm of his beautiful face. One shoulder lifted in a careless shrug, he added: ‘I reckon I’m a little jealous of him, but I needn’t be. Marcus Brutus’ relationship with Uncle Caesar is none of my concern, nor does it diminish me in the least. There are many weak-willed men in the world, no reason to focus on him.’ He smiled, and reaching out to pat Cicero on the shoulder, he said ‘Always trust a Cicero’s tongue to run fast and drive deep, but not unwise. Sometimes I’m thankful for how tactless you are, Cicero.’

For a moment Cicero Junior just looked as though he couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or offended. He settled in the end for a neutral shrug and an awkward grin. Octavius chuckled and leapt lightly from his perch. ‘Come, I think I saw papa Philippus emerging from whatever gossip he’s been doing. Let’s just go back, it’s high past lunchtime.’ he said cheerfully.

To this Cicero heartily agreed and dashed off to where Philippus could be seen ambling among a group of stragglers, looking as unconcerned as one who had just spent his day at the theatre.

As Octavius turned to follow, Marcus grabbed his arm. Later, he might congratulate himself for risking his friend’s pride and censure, but he was beginning to realise that when it came to Octavius, patience was not one of his virtues. Instead, he was at present filled with the same need to be in the other boy’s deepest confidence, a pressing want that had inexplicably haunted him since since they met.

‘Gaius. I want to— I don’t think any less of you for your feelings, you know. Whatever they are. I just— you will always be Gaius Octavius, my first friend in Rome, and who I think is amazing. I don’t care what anybody says. If— you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here. I will always be here.’ He got his clumsy words out in a rush, stumbling over their meaning, unsure of what he wanted them to mean himself. ‘Uh, only if you want.’ he added. Well, even to his own ears that sounded like a disaster.

Octavius did not say anything for a few moments, and Marcus’ heart began to fall, then a hand came to rest lightly against his own. He looked up into Octavius’ face. The other boy was smiling, not the sickly sweet one he gave Bibulus, nor the bright and friendly one he typically wore. His mouth barely lifted, but his grey eyes warmed. He patted Marcus’ hand once, twice, and murmured ‘I know, Marcus.’

Taking Marcus’ hand in his own, he led them away. ‘I’ll explain the whole circus for you when we get back. How much of that racket did you get?’

‘Some of the words, none of the meaning, to be honest.’ Marcus replied, grinning.

Overhead, pale sunlight was peeking from behind thinning clouds, and trailing laughter could be heard leaving the Curia Pompeia.

—

Brutus sank heavily into a sofa. Across from him, Porcia tutted over little Lucius’ dampened clothes and head, the boy’s brown curls sticking up wildly.

‘Anna! Are the baths ready? Take Lucius for a soak, make sure his hands and feet are warm afterwards.’ She called to a slave girl. ‘Oh I insist, dear. Off you go now, before you catch a cold. What would your father say when he comes back to find you ill or worse?’ Firmly but gently, she drew Lucius towards the house’s built-in baths.

Closing his weary eyes, Brutus listened to the sounds of domesticity for a while. Faintly the treacherous thought returned to him, that he should have been the one to marry Porcia instead of Bibulus. Not that Bibulus was in any way a bad husband, but she would have, dare he believe, made him happy. Neither was there ever any fault with Claudia, his very virtuous wife, he thought dismally, unless a wife could be charged with her husband’s discontent. If only the frigid arms of marital bliss were his only trouble!

An amused snicker floated from above him. Brutus opened his eyes and looked into Porcia’s smiling ones. ‘What’s the matter? You are far too young to be falling asleep from a Senate session. You used to march to them with such fire, we thought you were going to war, remember?’

Brutus’ smile was wane. ‘Yes. Your father thought it most endearing. He has always liked me. And I, him.’ I should have listened to him and married you, silently he added to himself. Alas, I was taken by a fruitless love for Julia. The echoes of it haunt me still, even as she lay dead, ashes cold.

‘What is the matter?’ Porcia asked again, frowning when Brutus said nothing for a while. She sat down; taking his hands in hers, she implored: ‘Did they give you any trouble? I heard... I have heard some very mean rumours about you, cousin Brutus. I didn’t believe any of them, of course. Is that what’s troubling you?’

Porcia! Oh dear Porcia! Maybe she would have made him happy indeed. Brutus sighed, the ever-present frown on his brows easing imperceptibly. ‘Yes, and no. The rumours I could deal with. That was all thanks to the old loose-tongue himself. But I could fix it. Don’t worry, Porcia.’ He patted her hands. ‘I’m not going to end up in an Extortion Court like my father-in-law. Still, it was free ammunition for any who cared to use it. Curio singled me out on the floor today. Went on and on about how my father-in-law and I hatched a dirty money-lending scheme during our governorship. It was just tit-for-tat, of course. I’m just collateral damage in this back-and-forth. I happened to be standing on one side, and the other side happened to have an arrow with my name on it. Still, the damage to my career is done. Curse Curio! Nobody even knew he had a side.’ Brutus finished with a snarl.

‘That’s awful!’ Porcia exclaimed. ‘You’re in a hard enough spot as it is. Curio is Caesar’s man now, isn’t he? Won’t Caesar do anything about it? He likes you.’

Brutus chuckled humourlessly. ‘I don’t know. In any case the man isn’t here. And he won’t be reacting to anything for a while. I don’t think Transalpine Gaul is quite subdued yet, he probably has his hands full with swatting Gallic rebels, but who knows? Caesar doesn’t share his thoughts with me.’

‘It will all be over soon, one way or another.’ Soothed Porcia. ‘Maybe they will come to an agreement. Maybe Caesar will step down and relinquish his imperium, then they can be lenient to him in his trials. Either way, it will pass, my dear Brutus.’

Having gnawed on the present political situation for several days, Brutus was unwilling to follow those thoughts down their endless spiral in his cousin’s company. His shoulders sagged, and he let Porcia changed the subject. ‘Oh! Do you know what put that sourpuss expression on Lucius’ face? He was the one who insisted on coming along to watch. And in this weather!’

Brutus shrugged. ‘When I came out, he was talking to some other lads. There was Cicero’s spawn, a boy I didn’t recognise, and Octavius, Caesar’s great-nephew. Maybe they argued. I wouldn’t be surprised, the Octavius boy is a menace.’

Porcia scrunched her eyebrows, searching her memories, then she raised them in surprise. ‘The tiny blond one, Atia’s? I saw him a few times, I think. His beauty is extraordinary, quite the cutest little boy I’ve ever met. Very charming, too.’

‘Too charming. No brat beyond the age of six should be that cute. I smell something about him, and I don’t like it.’ Brutus wrinkled his nose, not liking the alternate topic into which they had strayed. 

‘How mean!’ Porcia laughed. ‘Maybe he just reminded you of Julia, when she was little? A young heart spurned never forgives.’

Brutus smiled. That was his Porcia. Delightfully lack of guile, she was. Blunt and honest, here was someone he could trust at last. ‘Maybe.’ He conceded. ‘But I tire of talk about blond children. Do you still have that book, the one criticising Latin translations of Aristotle? We haven’t finished it. Let us do so now.’

Here in the house of a friend, at least, Brutus allowed himself a palmful of peace.

—

Lucius Philippus leisurely strolled home, his scribe and servant in tow, plus three overexcited children. Usually it was four, he noted, but unless he was severely mistaken, the other boy was in his sixteenth year, and in a few days’ time he would be celebrating his majority at the Liberalia Festival. With a mother like Pomponia, no doubt he was being polished to the last inch of hair on his head. So for the time being, he found himself the shepherd of three little lambs: little Cicero, on loan while his great father’s attentions were busied elsewhere, his own delightful Gaius, and this strange boy that Gaius picked up out of nowhere. At least he was a Latin squire, Philippus thought, and he seemed honest enough. If nothing else, he clearly adored Gaius, and that was enough for Philippus.

As they neared the steps of his Palatine house, Philippus noticed a huge man standing off to one side, as if waiting for something. He slowed to a wary crawl, there was no bodyguard with them - there wasn’t any need, why would any thug try to rob senators when there was an abundance of helpless people to prey on in the city? Still, he had the little ones with him.

To Philippus’ astonishment, Gaius sprang forward and ran towards the giant. At this distance, Philippus could see he was a Gallic man: he towered over all of them and his hair was worn in a long braid, though his garb was in Roman fashion. He hurried after Gaius, his calls to the wilful boy ignored.

‘... not return then, Meriadocus?’ He caught Gaius’ question as they drew near.

‘No, not return. Ain’t nothing for us there, except Axius, and sick wheat.’ The giant spoke in rumbling fragments of proper Latin, broken by pieces of wrong conjugations and strange syllables from the Vulgar speech.

‘Besides,’ he continued ‘we have a debt. Sky sent you. Cut the noose around my neck. My life-’ he extended a huge hand to Gaius, ‘is yours.’

Philippus stared at this scene stupefied. A small giggle burst from behind him, turning around he saw Cicero Junior in the throes of barely contained mirth. Well, that’s settled then. More of Gaius’ doing. Whatever this Gaul was, he wasn’t a threat.

When he turned around, Gaius was just letting go of this— Meriadocus’ hand, his own tiny one dwarfed in the Gaul’s. He gestured to the other boy, Agrippa, who had followed him in almost the same instant. They exchanged something quiet, and Agrippa too clasped the the big man’s arms, smiling.

As one, they turned to him, and Gaius beamed Philippus his most charming smile. ‘Papa Philippus, didn’t you say we needed a new steward for the Appenine villa?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do my research as I go, too impatient to get it done before. So please do point out anything weird. And in case you’re confused as I were: ‘noble’ isn’t the same as ‘patrician’. The former concerns your station (your job or father’s job) and the latter with your lineage. The Optimates vs Populares at first glance sounds like conservative vs populism, though it’s more complex than that. I get headaches reading about it.
> 
> \- Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think USA has the same...traditions in the senate as Rome did, preserved in the British system. Google something like ‘MPs behaving badly’ or ‘chaos in the house of commons’ and you’ll see.


	5. Children and Men (3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liberalia, the time for boys to come of age and step into the mantle of manhood. Or pushed into it, rather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I rewrote a large chunk of the previous chapters and updated them about 2 weeks ago. Nobody sprouted a second head or anything, but if something doesn’t make sense... that’s probably why. Do ask in comments, if you’d rather not go back and read that stuff. I can’t promise to never turn the story upside down though, the peril of being too impatient to research and plan beforehand.

He woke to the sharp tapping of small rocks against brickwork. Turning to the side, he burrowed further under the woollen blankets, willing the noise to disappear into blessed darkness. A hush, then a soft voice: ‘Quintus! Wake up!’

His mind perked up at the sound, quiet but too clear to be a fragment of the imagination. He sat up groggily; beyond the high window another voice joined the first: ‘Arise! Barbarians at the gates!’

Cousin Marcus. Well, now he was not only awake, but worried. ‘I’m up.’ he called, throat patchy with sleep.

‘Then what are you waiting for? Let us in!’, came little Marcus’ voice, too excited to qualify as a whisper.

Sighing, Quintus rolled himself out of bed and into a cloak. He tried to keep his footsteps light as he felt his way through darkened corridors to the back-garden, where the servants’ door was, and beyond which the mischief makers would no doubt be waiting. The full-moon was only two nights gone, and under the bright glow he needed no lamp to guide his feet. As he stepped outside, the night chill prickled his skin and dispelled any lingering sleep from his eyes. He looked up: the sky was a deep blue, almost black; the morning star shone bright and silver in the east, but not quite setting. There was still some hours left before dawn. Suppressing another sigh, he strode more swiftly. His discretion went rather unappreciated anyway, if the sound of shuffling feet and muffled complaints was any indication. Three small hooded shapes greeted him as he opened the barred door.

‘...finally! Brr— I can’t feel my balls anymore.’ the figure nearest to him said.

Quintus shook his head. ‘Any particular reason to stand outside my home in the dead of night, fondling your own balls, cousin?’ he quipped, but nevertheless handed the young boy an earthen pot - he had picked it up from his own bedside and the coals inside were still warm. The boy took it eagerly, grinning at Quintus half in gratitutde and half in mischief.

‘We’re here to rescue you, Quintus!’ the smallest shape drew back its hood and stepped closer to him, grey eyes bright with boyish excitement. Quintus felt himself smiling. He had missed that light; shadowed as it was by the storm coming over their world, too soon, too fast. May it not come to pass at all. Quintus shook the thought from his mind. For now, Gaius appeared cheerful: he was almost bouncing on his feet, his pale hair and eyes both shone moonbeam-silver. Quintus raised his hands and lightly patted the other’s cheeks, red with cold.

‘What am I in need of rescuing from? Save for lack of sleep, perhaps. You do realise I’m taking my coming-of-age on Liberalia? As in, as soon as dawn breaks and the festivities begin?’ Quintus asked, words admonishing, tone anything but. He was aware of his tendency to indulge his young friends on their whims, but rather than shame, he only found the wish to do so for a little longer. The feeling was stronger than ever now, on the eve of leaving behind the toga of childhood and donning the mantle of a grown man.

‘You don’t fool me, Quintus. I know you, you’re actually itching for one last adventure with your best friends, before you had to put on the toga virilis and feign an enthusiasm for politics.’ Gaius asserted, grinning.

Quintus breathed a half-laugh. ‘True enough, that’s more your thing anyway, Gaius. Everybody thought you made the cutest mini-senator, sitting next to your stepfather.’ he teased, then continued before the other boy could form a pout. ‘I won’t actually have to do anything, you know. Nothing will change much, until I take a commission, and that won’t be for a while yet.’ he said, then shivered, wondering why they were having this conversation in the cold night rather than at the feast his family would hold later that day.

‘It won’t be the same. Trust me.’ Gaius said. ‘If they are making you celebrate your coming-of-age on Liberalia and not your birthday, the least you can do is make it memorable. Come!’ He took Quintus’ hand and tugged. Quintus went willingly, amused, though he did cast his warm bed one last longing thought.

They stepped out from the shadow of the door’s alcove and into the moonlight. The final hooded figure, who had hung back while cousin Marcus and Gaius ambushed him, now looked up. Marcus Agrippa. The most recent addition to their little circle. Quintus traded his unrestrained grin for a more polite smile. He liked the lad well enough, Agrippa was similar to cousin Marcus in some ways: both had a boyish obsession with military history, both were prodigious with the sword, and both were forward with their emotions, quick to rouse, quick to forgive. Quintus knew and liked the kind: boys with hearts already bigger than men, who would grow to become steadfast and valuable friends.

Of course they were not entirely alike: Agrippa came from a humble background, and only by a stroke of luck had ended up in their company. When Quintus heard the tale of how the lad had came to Gaius’ acquaintance, he was grateful for his timely help; but he knew it was unlikely that Agrippa would ever rise high enough to be counted among their amici — though perhaps he would make a decent client to whomever he chose to follow. And yet, it was not social status and the lack of future prospects that set him furthest apart from cousin Marcus: there was a fire in his eyes that Quintus had to admit he rarely saw in anybody. An intensity, a focus, a sort of strength in spirit, perhaps. It was most clear when... when he looked at Gaius, actually. Like now.

As if sensing the attention, Agrippa looked up at him. They stared at each other blankly for a second, before Gaius impatiently tugged on Quintus’ hand. ‘Hurry, we only have a few hours before dawn, and many phalluses to hide.’

... Huh? That certainly grabbed Quintus’ attention. He turned to Gaius and cousin Marcus. ‘Imagine, the aged and laurel-wreathed priestesses of Liber Pater frantically crying out for missing penises.’ the latter said between sniggers.

Quintus almost stumbled in his stride. ‘I’m sorry.’ he heard himself speak. ‘Surely I misunderstood, or did you just imply that we steal the sacred idols from the Temple of Liber Pater?’

‘Not steal!’ Gaius protested. ‘No need to put it that way — see, we’ll simply re-locate them somewhere nice and safe. Then in the morning, the priestesses and augurs would have to find them before the procession could begin. And since the route must cover all the Liber wayshrines around the city, they would be on a tight deadline. It would be hilarious.’

Words left him for a few moments, and he halted, mouth agape. When he regained his voice, it was shrill with disbelief. ‘Where would you even hide them? You can’t just bury them or throw them in some cupboard, they are still holy artefacts. And what would any of this even achieve?’ he asked with a touch of desperation.

‘That’s the genius part.’ Cousin Marcus chimed in, his smug grin leaving no doubt as to whose idea this was. ‘We are going to hide them in the Temple of Diana.’

Trust his young friends to find humour in hiding phallic idols in the house of the goddess of chastity, Quintus thought hysterically, but he could not help a snort himself. ‘Yes, I suppose nobody would think to check there, even if you placed them on the lady’s altar.’ He shook his head, ‘but pray, what is the point to all of this?’

They had been steadily descending the south side of the Palatine, the sound of their sandalled feet on flagstones unbearably loud to Quintus’ ears, though they tried to move with as much stealth as a group of boys could manage. Ahead stood the Circus Maximus, a great looming wall of stone and bronze, its shadowy arches frowning at them.

Gaius’ hand on his was insistent, guiding him along lightless paths in the direction of the Aventine, at whose foot lay the Temple to Ceres, Liber, and Libera - the patron gods of the Roman plebeian class, and to whom they should be paying worship on that day. Quintus glanced at Agrippa, who had remained quiet so far, save for a smile mirroring the others’ mirth. He sighed internally. Though he did not count himself among the most pious Romans, he was nevertheless a well-educated youth, something of a cream of the crop, and a part of him blenched at the thought of doing anything against religious duty, even in jest.

Another tug on his hand, pulling against the reluctance of his feet and and heart. ‘It’s an extra half-day.’ Gaius said as Quintus looked at him. Quintus blinked, puzzled. ‘Half a day of being a boy.’ Gaius amended. He gestured to the group. ‘Half a day of being one of us. Official duties or no, you’ll be different from tomorrow on, won’t you? So we must send the old Quintus off with a hurrah.’

Quintus felt his chest tighten. He had not thought - a sudden shame washed over him and he found he could no longer look into Gaius’ eyes. He had not thought his friends would notice how he felt about coming of age. It was a universally auspicious event, and almost every boy would look forward to this day, to registering their citizenship, to growing their first beard, to having their first woman. Quintus was intelligent enough to realise that his reluctance to leave behind the simple days of childhood was not exactly admirable. Was it actually that obvious?

‘Don’t worry.’ As if reading his thoughts, Gaius said. ‘Only we know your secret.’

‘We won’t tell,’ Cousin Marcus chimed in from somewhere behind him. ‘if you go along with the plan, of course.’ The boy grinned and slung his arm around Quintus’ shoulder, nearly knocking him off-balance — at nearly fourteen year old, cousin Marcus’ growth spurt seemed to still be eluding him: he was a full head shorter than Quintus, though the grip of his arms was strong and growing at an alarming pace.

‘I won’t say anything either.’ from Gaius’ other side, Agrippa piped up for the first time since Quintus saw him that night. His smile was friendly and cheerful. ‘Even in the country towns, Liberalia tends to drag. It’s fun, but once you’ve sat through the elaborate ceremony a few times, it gets old. A coming-of-age should be more fun.’ he said.

‘It’s a shame Vergilius isn’t here.’ Gaius mused. ‘I’m sure he could come up with something both eloquent and hilarious for the day.’

‘That hardly seems a good use of his talents.’ Quintus said automatically, his mind still refusing to process the situation. ‘And he’s already a grown man.’

‘While you’re not, and could afford a little last-minute fun. Otherwise it will be boring in addition to suffocating — your mother is rather like mine, I think, I mean no disrespect, of course. Come on, Quintus.’ Gaius said, a small whine in his voice. The younger boy looked up at him, there was a sun in his face, lighting one of his rare, true smiles. The cold moonlight could not compare, and Quintus felt himself smiling back.

‘Alright, you little fiends.’ he said, yielding to his friends’ cajoling. ‘Do lead the way, Gaius. I’m sure you already have every detail planned, down to which door is unwatched and loosened?’

Gaius answered him with a wide and infectious grin.

—

Dawn swept over the city like an army under full rout. As predicted, the entire priesthood of Liber Pater and the handful of pontiffs present were hysterical with panic when one of them finally noticed that the procession was missing its most important items: the sacred phalluses, without which the virility of all Roman men seemed doomed.

Marcus stifled a yawn, he wasn’t tired, but it was boring - waiting for chaos to descend after their successful heist, a patience that was now being well rewarded. He watched with a suitable look of concern as another augur hurried past them, outfit in complete disarray. Next to him, Gaius sat on a little folding stool, decorous and noble in his purple-bordered toga. On his other side, Philippus sat in conversation with the Cicero’s bailiff, on whom the religious and familial administration duties fell while both senators were absent. Quintus and Marcus Cicero Junior sat nearby in polite silence, while their mothers stood close behind. 

Quintus was already wearing the chalked toga of manhood, its pristine folds arranged artfully on his shoulders. He sat straighter than most, as if he was afraid of displacing the fall of the white cloth, but every now and then he glanced at them, and a small smile quirked the corners of his mouth.

‘What do you think is keeping the procession, papa Philippus? It should have reached our district by now.’ Gaius asked his stepfather before taking a bite out of a late-seasoned apple, pearly teeth sinking into the blood-red fruit. His eyes were widened in concern, so clear they could drown a man in their innocence.

Philippus shook his head, irritation replacing concern on his face. ‘Ill preparation, no doubt. Just because Caesar isn’t here, they think they could slack off without consequence. It’s one thing to shirk maintenance of the calendar, when the Pontifex Maximus can’t physically oversee it, another to neglect their duties to the gods.’

‘Yes, if only uncle were here.’ Gaius said with a sigh. From the corner of his eye, Marcus caught a wink the other boy threw his way. Clearing his throat, he helped himself to one of his friend’s apples and pretended to watch the horizon for the late-coming Liberalia procession. It was already mid-morning, and some had abandoned their post along the route, while others, chiefly mothers with children coming of age, were livid. Some hundred-yard down the cobbled street, he could descry a priestess being swamped by an army of wealthy-looking matrons. Their voices could be heard from where he stood, shouting things that were not at all matronly.

A slight nudge to his side. Gaius was looking the other way, where several women in the white garb of Diana’s priesthood were running. They made a sharp turn southwards and disappeared from sight. ‘Took them long enough.’ Gaius murmured very low, leaning towards Marcus in feigned tiredness, then he sprung back up to catch the priestess of Liber running past them in the same direction, angry Romans hot on her heels. Marcus grinned at his friend, who seemed to have judged the entertainment complete, and was nonchalantly pulling out a book from the depths of his toga. They passed an hour or so absorbed in the scroll, together they were getting faster at reading Greek, though neither could speak it with any fluency.

When finally the procession showed up, it was attended by harried-looking priestesses, their attire rumpled and askew. The Flamen Cerialis - the pontiff in service of Ceres - was with them, his tall hat drooping, his face red with exertion, and he walked in a most peculiar way: every few steps he would pause and reached out to wrap a hand on each of the phallic idols being carried through the city. His large palm stroked the idols lovingly, almost obscenely, and some of the more prudish bystanders gaped askance.

‘It’s not like they can sprout wings and fly away. Unless bronze testicles could walk, I think he worries too much.’ Gaius spoke only for Marcus’ ears. Marcus snorted, but nobody noticed.

After the entourage had passed them, Gaius stood and bounded up to the Cicero boys. He beamed warmly and leaned up to kiss Quintus on both cheeks; the other boy returned the gesture, but it was strangely stiff, and his arms hovered in a half-hug around his friend’s shoulders. ‘Congratulations, Quintus.’ Gaius said. ‘You are off to the Forum for registration now, yes? Should we come with you, or should we meet at your home for the feast?’

Quintus faltered, his eyes flickered to his mother, then to the bailiff. Marcus frowned at this. Gaius must have noticed too, his hands dropped from the other boy’s shoulders, but he said nothing. An awkward silence hung about all four of them for a few seconds, their good cheer sputtered and went out, as if suddenly aware of the winter chill.

‘I... I think— we’ll only be having a private dinner tonight. Just close family. Thank you, though.’ Quintus said haltingly, the light words forced out heavily from him.

‘I see.’ replied Gaius evenly. Marcus would have taken offence on his behalf, if not for the look on Quintus’ face. He was staring at Gaius, mouth slightly parted around an unformed apology. A cold moment passed, then he started as if jerking free. He leaned forward in a half-step.

Gaius stepped back and rummaged in his satchel, pulling out a small package. ‘I had better give this to you now then.’ He placed it in Quintus’ half-raised hand. ‘Here. Congratulations again, Quintus. And I think your mother looks quite ready to leave, you should hurry, it’s still a long day.’ he said. Their hands held for a moment before falling apart. ‘Will we—will I see you two at our lessons still?’ he asked.

‘Only cousin Marcus.’ Quintus replied. He did not meet their yes, but instead stared at the gift held close to his chest in one hand, while the other balled into a fist on his side. ‘—and not as often, I don’t think. I— my mother had arranged for me to attend a rhetoric school.’

‘I see.’ Gaius said again, then he smiled. ‘Still here, though? In Rome?’ His light, friendly tone had the older boy jerking his head up. Quintus’ eyes widened minutely, he offered a slight nod in confirmation, but he did not smile back.

‘Good enough. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, Cicero.’ he called to Cicero Junior, who had been lurking behind his cousin. The other boy mumbled an affirmative, then, hearing his mother’s voice, he made to leave them, throwing Gaius something that was a half-wave, half-grimace.

‘I think that’s your cue too, Quintus.’ Gaius said. ‘And I’ll... see you when I see you.’

Quintus said nothing, and did not make to move away. His normally warm hazel eyes were a muddy brown in that cloudy morning, and his mouth was set in a tense line. ‘I will see you, Gaius.’ at last he said, mutinously. He pulled the younger boy into a sudden embrace, then let go just as suddenly and left.

The bailiff joined his employers, and Philippus turned back to them with innocent cheer, having not noticed anything strange. ‘Ready to head back?’ he asked Gaius. They fell into step together, depriving Marcus of the chance to speak to Gaius. Later, he thought to himself.

‘Time sure flies. Quintus Cicero’s boy is all grown up now. Pomponia was just telling me how they would send him to study in Athens as soon as possible, before — “urban vices corrupted him”, she said. I’m almost positive she meant me. Dreadful woman.’ Philippus grumbled as they walked. ‘I wouldn’t want to send you away, Gaius.’ he patted his stepson’s head affectionately. Gaius seemed used to it, and made no response. ‘Ah well, sooner or later his fate will be out of her hands, I expect his male relations would take it upon themselves to introduce the boy to the pleasure of wine and women. That’s what life should be for a young man after all, it’s too soon even for a Cicero to begin his career...’ Philippus rambled as they walked the short distance back to his city home.

Marcus glanced at his friend. He seemed calm and pensive, his face did not betray whether he was offended or disappointed by the abrupt cooling of his friendship with the Cicero boys.

‘Papa Philippus,’ Gaius stopped his stepfather before he went into his study. ‘what do you think the Great Advocate would do, when he hears of the disquiet in the Senate?’

Philippus halted in his tracks, a puzzled look came upon his face. His glittering black eyes peered at them, and Marcus suddenly remembered that Philippus himself was a senator with a luminous career. And nigh immovable standing, or so Tullius Rufus had told Marcus and Lucius. No unworthy ship would have stayed afloat for very long in the treacherous political waters of the time. No, Philippus was not a simpleton, whatever his jovial manner and rather Epicurean lifestyle might suggest.

‘I cannot guess. That would depend on what news he receives, who sends it, and the manner in which they do.’ he replied. ‘With any luck, his good sense might prevail, and Cicero will open his eyes to see that Pompeius is not the man he thinks he is.’

‘You don’t have much hope.’ Gaius stated matter-of-factly.

‘No.’ Philippus agreed. ‘Ever he is blinded by his affection for those that don’t merit it. Or perhaps he is simply over-confident in his own judgement of character, and will not see evidence for what they are.’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I know you have read the man’s writings, Gaius.’ Philippus’ face lit up with pride. ‘But whatever he might say about virtuous men being the foundation of government, he never seemed to apply it very well. Why trust Pompeius, and not Caesar?’

Gaius hummed in agreement, then excused himself quietly. Before he could turn, Philippus drew him near. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Gaius.’ he said. At his stepson’s startled look, he smiled a touch sadly. ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think Cicero or his brother told anybody to keep their sons from associating with us. Distance aside — it’s impossible for a letter to have reached them in Cilicia since the Kalends, unless someone among the Optimates thought to include them in the plan — which I don’t think they did. Anyway, I would bet that their mothers are simply being overly prudent. Truly, there is no need to involve children in our quarrels.’

Neither Marcus nor Gaius pointed out that Quintus Cicero came of age that day, and was technically, helplessly, no longer a child.

—

‘Are you alright?’ Marcus asked as soon as they were alone in the dining lounge.

‘Quite. I can’t say it was completely unexpected, though I had thought nobody would overreact until at least Uncle Caesar had made a move. Any move. I suppose my judgement of the situation is more naive than I believed.’ Gaius said, picking among the plates of finger-foods piled on small tables.

Marcus sat down next to him and stilled his questing hand. ‘You are still hurt, though.’ he said, blunt.

Gaius threw him a mildly annoyed look. ‘You’re not going to cease your study for “the official guide to Gaius Octavius’ tells and how he does not like them”, are you?’ he said, but he sighed with resignation and leaned against Marcus. ‘Oh well, I guess I can make an exception. Yes, I reckon I am rather hurt by the rejection. It’s as out of their hands as it is from mine, though. Quintus might be of age, but there isn’t much he could do. It’s strange to think that one day he’s a child like me, and the next he’s a full-grown citizen, ready for military duty.’

‘We’ll still see him around for a while yet. And Cicero Junior is still attending Tyrannion’s class with us.’ Marcus said soothingly.

‘That’s true. But I expect he too would be assigned a new tutor, or moved to a grammar school altogether, when nobody proves terrifying enough to handle him.’ Gaius said, trying for indifferent, but he was picking his desserts again. Marcus smiled.

‘I say all will pass eventually.’ he offered. ‘You are not too upset?’

‘No. And you can add that to your book: “I observed that Gaius Octavius was not distraught, because whenever he was, he started coughing and wheezing like a pair of bellows. Most distracting.”’ Gaius replied almost waspishly. Marcus laughed at his friend’s prickliness. He studied the rich foods in front of them for an offering, he himself was more fond of hearty and simple fare, but Gaius would probably live entirely on sweets if it was allowed.

‘What are these?’ Marcus pointed to a plate, piled high with large brown balls. He picked up one: it seemed to be fried dough, coated in honey and seeds.

Gaius took it from his hand without being offered. ‘Good choice. It’s Globi. Cato’s Globi, to be exact. Not the bothersome Cato, his great-grandfather, Cato the censor. At least that man was entertaining, and he had wicked recipes.’ he said, popping the entire ball into his mouth and closing his eyes in apparent bliss.

Their conversation turned to food, then the history of food, the myths of food, the logistics of food, how to feed a city — what about an army? Until Marcus was not quite sure what they had been talking about, and he felt his own eyes drooping. The sun had been out for a while, and now it is westering. Its warming fingers stroked his skin through the high window pleasantly. He yawned. Next to him, Gaius murmured softly, half-asleep: ‘It’s a pity. Thanks Jupiter I have you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Short chapter, but I’ve restarted so many times I made myself post it, otherwise it was just never going to happen.
> 
> \- Images NOT MINE:
> 
> Liberalia, donning the pure-white toga virilis of manhood:  
> 
> 
> I hope this image of a Liberalia procession is _not_ to scale, dear god. I took the liberty of assuming it’s not:  
> 
> 
> Cato’s cheesecake-ball thing. I saw it on Tasting History and could not get the head-canon out of my mind that Octavius likes to munch on it:  
> 
> 
> \- Quintus at this time (16yo). I only have myself to blame for this one...  
> 


	6. Children and Men (4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agrippa had many friends in his hometown; he remembered spending many seasons with them and Lucius. But he was beginning to realise friends were a little different in Rome, and different again when it came to Octavius.

‘It must be treason then, to let Roman soil languish fruitless in the pockets of wealthy landowners, while Roman children starve, and Roman men beg on the streets...’

Gaius’ eyes roamed over the dense text, littered with the unreadable shorthand of some harried scribe. It was no matter. The words rang clear to his mind in the smooth timbre of Caesar’s voice, one that he never forgot, though it had been almost six years since he heard it last.

These agrarian reforms had been spectacularly divisive. Using public funds to buy and redistribute lands to the poor was simply not done in their republic. The idea was thoroughly plebeian, harkening to the days of the Gracchi brothers some two or three generations past. That alone was enough to raise the hairs on every barbered head in the Senate, sending fists thumping and feet stamping.

He flicked through the recorded debates. He could believe that Cicero alone was truly concerned for the welfare of their treasury, as well as the corruption that was bound to come with this kind of project. Yes, it would be dangerous to appoint the wrong man to the land-buying committee — dangerous, but very useful if wielded correctly. As Caesar could and most certainly did. Yes, Gaius confirmed to himself as he scanned the names and tried to place them, Cicero was technically right — these deals greatly favoured the veterans of Pompey and Crassus, Caesar’s then-allies. But what of it? At the time, peace between those individuals was what they all needed. And to that end, Caesar had succeeded with flying colours.

Now, aside from Cicero — Gaius tapped his fingers as he thought — what truly rattled the rest of the Senate was none of these ideals, nor was it the half-forgotten ghosts of the Gracchi. No, it was the fact that the laws made Caesar even more popular. He had no doubt that these powerful aristocrats were driven mostly by fear and envy. Only to be so thoroughly beaten by a single man!

Gaius scoffed. His thoughts were rich with vindictive amusement, as though he had a part in his uncle’s successes and was not merely reading about them years after the fact. The second-hand satisfaction was not unlike that when the charioteer he favoured won a race. A baser version of pride. The association made him frown.

He shook his head and began rolling up the scrolls. He bound, re-bound, sorted, and re-sorted them into a neat mountain on his desk. Uncle was right to favour the plebeians — they had untapped potential in spades — not to mention a willingness to be moulded, he thought as he moved absentmindedly through the task. The idea was certainly not novel, but nobody had ever been as successful as Caesar. Not Gaius Marius, not the Gracchi. No, Caesar was special — and they were afraid of him. Fear made men stupid — for stupid they must be if they think this ploy was going to bring Caesar down for good. Fools! Caesar will outmanoeuvre them. Before the year was up, they would be begging him to return for the consulship with army and imperium intact... How would uncle manage it? And if it were me, what would I do? — he pondered distractedly.

His stomach growled, interrupting the wandering thoughts. He had lost track of time, and the pink of dawn was nearly faded, giving way to a pale winter morning. Marcus was late.

He frowned, made to stand, then sat back down. He could wait, but a disproportionate worry was stirring to life within him. For a few moments he sat there wavering. Just as he was about to call for a servant, there came a sudden cacophony. Knocks, doors creaking open, laughter, then loud footsteps. There was a muffled, gruff voice, then an answering guffaw, bright and warm. Nobody else he knew laughed like that, as if the sound came from nothing but joy. It bothered him how much he liked hearing it.

A few moments later, summoned by his thoughts, the older boy appeared in the doorway of the study, head tilted in an apologetic smile. 

‘Sorry I’m late, Gaius. You haven’t breakfasted?’ Marcus asked in that smiling voice of his, the deep blue eyes twinkled as he looked straight at Gaius, somewhat insolent for an apology. The ink-dark curls fell into his eyes, adding to the puppy effect. If puppies could be attractive, that is. Gaius scowled.

‘I was busy reading.’ he sniffed, picking up a random scroll from his mountain, now sorted chronologically top-wise and alphabetically side-wise.

‘You will read faster once you have something to eat.’ Marcus said. The fond exasperation was so evident in his tone that Gaius had half a mind to refuse, just to be contrary. His stomach protested, and he nodded, conceding to the reasonable part of his brain that was appalled at his behaviour. He made sure to walk slowly and deliberately. The twinkle in Marcus’ eyes multiplied as he neared. He halted and opened his mouth, ready to demand to know what was so funny.

‘I greet young master Octavius.’ a low voice rumbled from behind him. He started and almost crashed into Marcus, before recognition sank in and saved him from embarrassing himself (and no doubt adding to the other boy’s mirth).

‘Meriadocus?’ he said, whirling around. ‘You startled me.’ He cranked his neck to look at the Gaul. The man was almost double his height and as large as a pillar. It seemed he was capable of pretending to be one too.

‘Sorry.’ Meriadocus grunted. ‘I came for goodbye. Got lost. Agrippa helped.’ he explained.

‘Oh, right. You’re leaving for the Appenine villa now? I thought papa would wait until spring.’

‘Master Philippus said ready is best.’ Meriadocus replied unhelpfully.

Gaius blinked, then shook his head — it couldn’t be anything important. ‘I see. Well, I wish you a safe journey then, Meriadocus. And good health, and warm hearth. Though I suppose winter in our mountains is nothing to you — I read that it is much colder in Gaul?’. He smiled at the other with real warmth. Despite having the chief hand in saving this former barbarian from the gallows, he had not expected to like the man as much as he did. Something about the giant was reassuring, almost charming.

‘Merry.’ he said. At Gaius’ confusion he added: ‘Call me Merry. Like rest of my family.’ 

The gall of this freedman, to ask his patrician employer to use a familiar nickname. Gaius smiled in spite of himself. ‘Alright, Merry. We’ll meet again soon enough, mama likes to take us there in the summer.’ He held out his hand, only to be drawn into a bone-crushing hug by the Gaul.

Gaius gingerly nursed his sore shoulders while Marcus exchanged farewells with Merry. Something Cicero Junior said suddenly popped into his head, and he said to the man, almost absently: ‘By the way, Merry, did you put a curse on Axius after all?’

Marcus looked at him in surprise, but Merry only shook his head. ‘No.’ he said simply.

‘Of course not.’ Marcus shot him a quizzical look. ‘It was clearly a trumped-up charge. Your neighbour took advantage of the situation, or even did it himself — right?’ he asked the Gaul, who nodded.

‘Total hogwash.’ he agreed gruffly to Marcus’ smile. ‘I planted the bugs with my hands, not with curse.’ he added.

Marcus sputtered and his eyes went round as saucers. Gaius smirked, immensely satisfied. ‘Because of your wife?’ he asked, showing sympathy.

Merry’s face grew serious. He nodded once. ‘He would try to take Bella. I know.’

Gaius gave an understanding nod of his own. ‘Anything for those that matters. That’s fair enough.’ He stepped back and waved, careful not to invite another enthusiastic embrace. ‘I must go and eat now, or I shall not make it through Tyrannion’s lesson. Goodbye, and good luck.’ He grinned at the gaping Marcus as he left them to go in search of sweetbread.

—

The day was interminably long. The coals burnt too hot, broiling the study as if it were a steam bath. Breakfast had been almost entirely honey cakes, at Gaius’ insistence, no doubt, when he noticed his mother was not home to prohibit it.

Why, oh why did I let him challenge me to a contest of who could chew more of those accursed caramelised things? — thought Marcus despairingly. He felt almost feverish with restless energy, and did not realise he had started bouncing his thigh until their Greek master turned his glare on him.

‘I assume, Marcus Agrippa, from your impatience, that you already possess the mind of the Just man, and need no more guidance to it? Indeed, perhaps you have already grasped the nature of Good itself, and might care to enlighten us.’ he asked in a voice as smooth as ice. Marcus shuddered, shaking his head emphatically.

‘No sir. Not at all, sir.’ he pleaded in earnest. Opposite him (and behind the master), Cicero Junior sniggered without sound.

Tyrannion was not moved. ‘Then maybe you would be so kind as to allow me to finish my lecture, hm? We will consult your insight afterwards. Now, as I was saying, in the previous book we had seen how all forms of governments are unjust, except for that of a just philosopher-king. Let us now study the parallels of this idea in the mind...’

Marcus grimaced. He could feel Gaius’ amusement without looking. He looked down at their copy of The Republic in despair, it was all Greek to him. His father had called him exceptionally bright (chiefly when comparing him to Lucius), but he was beginning to feel like a frog escaping from its tiny pond, lost at sea.

A hand entered his peripheral vision, and he glanced at it. Gaius had doodled a crude shape onto his scroll, right next to ‘the tyrant is a slave to his lust’. He almost snorted, and had to thank his stars that their master was in the middle of the most impassioned part of his speech.

It seemed to him that Rome had fallen and been re-founded a thousand times before Tyrannion concluded with a heartfelt: ‘...thus the happiest life is that of a wise man, and the most miserable that of a tyrant.’

The three boys all nodded vigorously. Gaius raised his hand and asked with convincing enthusiasm for their master to expound on the methods of seeking wisdom. Tyrannion wholeheartedly approved of this, and seemed to have forgotten his promise of drilling Marcus on the subject. He let out a breath of relief. Truly, he though, it would be a fair deal to trade all the wisdom in the world for Gaius.

The lesson went on past its usual time: the sun had left its zenith for some time before they were released.

Gaius sprawled artlessly right where he had been sitting and refused to stir even for food. He only raised his head to tut at little Cicero for eating an entire block of cheese. The other boy shrugged unapologetically. ‘I don’t grow on thoughts of wisdom.’ he said.

‘Clearly.’ Gaius commented drily. ‘If you did, with your father you would be twice as tall, and not be mistaken for being the same age as me—’. An olive went sailing over his head, and he glared with murderous intent at little Cicero.

‘You’re not the same age as him?’ Marcus asked, mildly surprised by the revelation. Cicero Junior stood only half a hand taller than Gaius, though he was bulkier. From his puckish face to his boundless energy, Marcus was sure he could not be older than twelve.

‘He already turned fourteen last January.’ Gaius was the one who answered. ‘Older than you by half a year.’ His laughing eyes told exactly what he thought of the gap.

Marcus could not help sharing in the snickers at Cicero’s expense, though at the other’s dour look he added sympathetically: ‘Some people take all their growth in one go. Lucius was like that, one year he was barely at our father’s chest, and the next he was almost as tall as him.’ Cicero was greatly cheered by this news. Marcus glanced at Gaius, who had nodded thoughtfully at the idea. He did not dare to point out that he had a feeling Gaius did not fall into the same category — instead he latched onto the first thing he could think of: ‘What did you mean, with Cicero’s father he should be twice as tall? Is Marcus Cicero Senior very tall?’

‘What? Oh. No, not particularly. He is pretty average in stature.’ Gaius replied. ‘I was referring to the fact that he is something like Rome’s own philosopher-star, to contend with Athens’ own. In fact, Cicero — did your father finish that book, the one like Plato’s? Maybe we should be studying that instead. Who needs Greek stuff when we have Roman?’

Cicero Junior shrugged. ‘I guess. Ask Tiro - the scribe.’ he said.

Something in his manner when his father was mentioned gave Marcus pause. Gaius too immediately picked up on it. ‘Have you news from him?’ he asked.

‘Well, no, mother had only written to him two weeks ago.’ Cicero shook his head, then after a pause he added: ‘But she seemed to think father would like Caesar to step down and accede to the Senate’s demands.’

Gaius’ gaze sharpened into a glinting edge. ‘Interesting.’ he said. ‘I did not realise he cared so little for justice.’

Cicero frowned in response. He dropped the salted fish he had been eating and wiped his hand rather violently. ‘Careful, Octavius.’ he said. ‘My father is a wise man, you said so yourself moments ago. Remember? He simply wanted what is best for Rome.’

‘Uncle Caesar is what’s best for Rome.’ Gaius replied frostily, sitting up straight in his chair. For a moment, he looked like one of those lofty Eastern princes, issuing a decree from their golden thrones. Cicero Junior was not impressed however, and the effect was ruined as the boys sat glaring at each other sullenly.

‘Are you sure that’s what he thinks?’ Marcus’ question went unnoticed, since at the same moment Cicero burst out: ‘I don’t like Curio’s about-face.’

Gaius raised an eyebrow at him. ‘And since when do you have an opinion on him? Just last month you wouldn’t have recognised the name, let alone knowing that he used to be an enemy of my great-uncle.’

Cicero flushed. ‘It’s different now, isn’t it?’ he retorted. ‘And... if Caesar had nothing on his conscience, why should he be afraid to lay down arms and stand before our courts? Why did he employ the sort of man that Curio is?’

Now it was Gaius’ turn to be truly riled. The brewing anger drained from his face, and a pleasant expression fit over it like a curtain. He smiled sweetly. ‘Oh but you really are a child, Marcus Cicero.’ he said with mock pity.

Across from him, Cicero half-rose from his seat, the red flush had spread from his cheeks to his neck. The room was more stifling than ever, Marcus could hardly draw breath against the cloying air and the strange lump in his throat. He did not think his friends would come to actual blows; all the same, he shifted to move between them — at least to shield Gaius from Cicero’s broiling temper.

‘Stop it, you two. Surely this doesn’t concern us.’ he offered with a assertive authority he did not feel.

It had been the wrong thing to say. Gaius’ pale grey eyes were cold as steel when they turned on Marcus; the sharp edge cut something in him. He faltered. Gaius scoffed. ‘Doesn’t concern you, you mean. We’re different.’

Marcus flinched, feeling his heart drop. His arm, half-raised to split the space between the other boys, flopped awkwardly back to his side. Gaius’ eyes followed it. He started slightly, as if remembering something. He jerked his head up to meet Marcus’ eyes.

A door slammed, making all of them jump. Cicero pitched forward in his stance, fist landing in a bowl of soup, sending its contents everywhere. Gaius had reeled back against Marcus’ side.

Into this setup walked the missing part of their little band, Quintus Cicero. He seemed unusually excited, his smile was very wide and his pure-white toga sat rather crooked. Marcus thought the light in his greenish hazel eyes looked slightly manic.

‘Here I am!’ he declared with gusto. His manner was completely at odds with both his signature calm and the recent brooding air that he had taken to wearing like a second toga. It was so strange that for a moment the argument was forgotten, and the three young boys only stared at him stupefied.

Gaius was the first to recover. He stood up to face the older boy— man, though it was difficult to grant Quintus Cicero that title right then. ‘Here you are.’ he agreed, eyeing Quintus’ attire with a critical look.

Quintus beamed at all of them brightly before seeming to recover some of his usual decorum. He cleared his throat and offered, still smiling: ‘I was thinking we might go for a ride.’

‘What? Right now?’ Gaius stared at him flabbergasted. ‘Don’t you have things to do? Lessons? Training? Parties?’

Quintus waved a hand dismissively. ‘I told mother I didn’t want to go to any of those. That I could ring around every tutor she finds in rhetorical skills, if I choose. And there was no need for me to swing a sword like a common solider. So I would do as I please.’ he explained.

‘Aunt Pomponia accepts it? That’s unexpected.’ Cicero Junior commented, having apparently forgotten the entire argument along with his anger. His cousin shrugged noncommittally.

‘Not exactly. But as she liked to point out, I am a man now, and I shall do as I please.’

‘And this is what pleases you? Hanging out with a bunch of kids? What about the wild parties? The wine, the women, the debauchery? Don’t tell me Hortensius and Terentius would pass up the chance to induct you into their cult.’ Gaius asked, his mouth quirked in mocking humour, but the twinkle in his eyes told Marcus of his true feelings. There was real warmth and pleasure there as he peered at the older boy. The affection mingled with respect swimming in them prodded at something ugly in Marcus. He swallowed and tried to pretend that his breath had not fallen out of rhythm. It was shameful to be envious of his friends’ bond, after all they had known each other long before they ever met him. And besides, the Ciceros were much more suitable peers to Gaius.

Movement brought his attention back to the present, the other boys seemed to have agreed to Quintus’ suggestion, and they were already preparing to leave. A servant was helping Quintus remove his rumpled toga.

‘I admit it was fun for the first few nights. But you’ll be surprised how quickly you tire of something long-anticipated.’ Quintus said as he tightened the notched belt on his tunic. ‘I feel clear-headed for the first time in days. As far as I’m concerned, after a two-week long headache, I’ve had all the undiluted wine I could want for the rest of my life.’

‘And the women? How many did you do?’ This was Cicero Junior, face full of eager interest. Marcus flushed, though he could not deny a hint of curiosity on the subject. Gaius, on the other hand, rolled his eyes in clear distaste. Quintus’ reaction was peculiar. Like Marcus, he flushed, but he averted his eyes and completely clammed up on the matter, as if he had suddenly became a prude rather than the debauched youth he was meant to be. This only fuelled Cicero’s curiosity further, and he continued to pester his cousin even as they left.

Marcus lagged behind the others. The crisp winter air was a pleasant change from Gaius’ heated study. He took slow steps, and thought of nothing in particular. Small sandalled feet padded into view next to his own. He looked up into at Gaius.

‘About earlier... I’m sorry.’ his friend offered in a hesitating tone. Marcus smiled, he imagined Gaius was never familiar with the words. He shook his head slightly.

‘It’s fine. I’m not a girl, you know, I don’t sulk.’ he said. Gaius’ mouth quirked at this, betraying his disbelief.

‘That’s good.’he agreed placatingly. They fell into synchronised steps without effort, Marcus naturally shortened his strides to match the other’s. Ahead of them, Quintus made one valiant attempt to shake off his cousin, nearly breaking into a run as he did. They both laughed, and hurried to catch up.

Marcus thought that was the end of the matter; but as they led their horses towards the Tiber banks, Gaius steered his to a trot alongside Marcus’. He was riding a grey mare, a smaller and more docile creature than the stallion he had used when Marcus first met him. It went obediently next to Marcus’ rented horse - a retired courier with an uncanny air of bored exasperation whenever he was handled.

Marcus looked at the other boy. His face was flushed, and his eyes bright.

‘I didn’t mean it.’ he said evenly. His eyes were opened very wide, and they looked more defiant than apologetic, but there could be no question as to the sincerity behind them. Marcus’ heart thudded in his chest; an inappropriate intrusive thought crawled at the back of his mind — that he would welcome anything if the compensation was to have that intense focus solely on him.

‘It doesn’t bother me, honest.’ he said, feeling a genuine smile on his face. ‘I wasn’t born part of your world, and that’s just the truth. Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends though.’

Gaius looked unsatisfied with the reply, but he let it be. ‘The best.’ he said instead.

‘Honoured.’ Marcus responded with a laugh. His horse snorted, kicking its hind legs impatiently.

They joined their friends at the river, where Cicero had picked up a fallen tree branch and was waving it at his cousin menacingly. Gaius hopped down with practiced ease — it had taken some convincing for Marcus to believe that his friend could indeed ride a horse, and even now he could not help but watched the other boy warily whenever they went riding. 

‘What brought on the kin-slaying?’ he asked the Ciceros with mock horror.

‘He promised, if I win, to take me to one of his Bacchanalian parties.’ Cicero declared.

‘It’s amazing how every single word in that was false.’ Quintus protested, throwing his hands up in vexation.

‘You’re just scared because I’m the better fighter!’ Cicero whined.

‘You’re two years younger!’ Quintus glared at him. ‘I’m not about to fight a kid. Man, remember? And it’s moot, I’m not taking you to anything, you can wait for your own maturity.’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, I have an idea. Marcus and I will help you.’ Gaius interrupted. Marcus looked up from where he had been securing the reins of the horses, startled. The others also turned to look at him dubiously. He continued without acknowledging them: ‘The rewards can be decided later, but a challenge can’t go unanswered. Yet it is true that Quintus had a great advantage of age and... height over you, Cicero.’ he explained with the air of a sage. ‘So this is what we will do. Marcus here is close enough to fourteen that we could count him as such. If Cicero perches on his shoulders, that makes a twenty-eight year old warrior. It is no coincidence then, that Quintus has turned sixteen and I can only add a few months to my twelve years. Together we make a perfectly balanced opponent to you two.’

There was a pause as they all tried to digest this logic. Quintus looked torn between horror and hilarity. It was Cicero who decided the issue, having decided that both he and Marcus were better athletes than the other two.

‘Deal! Come, Agrippa! You and I will make them bow before our combined might, then Quintus shall show us his revelries!’

Quintus opened his mouth to object, but Gaius stole his moment and agreed to the challenge with an innocent grin. Marcus shivered a little.

Cicero was a lot heavier than Gaius. Marcus grunted, gripping the other boy’s calves and trying to maintain his balance with a squirming rock on his shoulders. The brat’s excited swinging of his oak branch did not help.

Their opponent already seemed to be faring much better. Quintus was a tall, lissom youth by nature, but he had received the appropriate aristocratic education, which included a healthy does of physical training — he was stronger than he looked, and had no trouble moving with Gaius on his shoulders. The chief instigator grinned at them from his perch with impish satisfaction.

On the count of three, Cicero lunged forward, kicking a little as though he was on horseback. Wincing, Marcus went with his momentum. Their stumbling movements were slow and awkward; Quintus nimbly sidestepped them with ease, Gaius’ weight apparently not hindering him in the least. Cicero lunged again, and Marcus felt instant sympathy for the fighting bull from Hispania that he saw once as a child.

A few more lunges later, left, right, left, left again, and Marcus was quite numb. He was beginning to consider whether he was strong enough to simply hurl Cicero at the other two, when Gaius suddenly shouted: ‘Now!’ — Before he knew it, Cicero’s sidewards momentum sent both of them toppling down. Marcus caught himself with his arm, hissing as half of his body came into contact with freezing water. Cicero was not so lucky: he had cannoned into the shallows with a tremendous splash. He flailed and came up sputtering; the water only came up to his waist, but it was absolutely frigid. He waded back to them, shivering, his murderous glare thus unfortunately ruined.

‘Ch-cheated.’ he gritted to Gaius and Quintus. The latter had crouched down on Gaius’ signal, sending their opponent into the river, where they had been inching towards in their evasion. Their grins showed no remorse whatsoever.

‘You mean genius.’ he said with insufferable condescension. Marcus huffed a laugh despite himself.

‘Very well done.’ he agreed.

Gaius preened at the praise. ‘I think I will make an excellent general, actually. It must run in the family.’

‘If wars were fought with piggyback fights, I’m sure you would be.’ Quintus said with a chuckle. His face was red with jubilant exertion.

Cicero opened his mouth and broke out in a series of sneezes that sent droplets flying everywhere. Gaius laughed at him and held out a cloak for him to dry.

As they walked back to their horses, Marcus heard Gaius and Cicero slipping back seamlessly into friendly snipes and easy banter. Same as ever. Was this just how friendships work in the upper classes, he wondered to himself, feeling a little lost.

—

Marcus started from his sleep. The windows were open, and a freezing wind quickly blew away traces of a jumbled dream. He groaned and shivered, but he was thankful for it — there was something unpleasant about the dream, even if he could not recall any detail.

As his mind cleared and his eyes adjusted to amber light, he realised he was alone in the room. The lamp was lit, showing an unmade bed on the other side. Lucius was nowhere to be found. He blinked, strange — he was often the one to wake up first, even at home. He sat up slowly, swinging his legs to the side and fumbled for his sandals. He went for the door, reaching to close the windows as he did. The sky was a dark indigo with only the barest hint of a flush at the horizon. It was abominably early even for him. He frowned. Their window opened inwards into the garden, and he thought he heard a faint, familiar thwacking sound. What was Lucius doing this early? He wondered as he followed the sound outside.

His brother was hidden behind a large fountain, and he gave no acknowledgement of Marcus’ approach. In fact, he seemed singularly focused on hitting a straw dummy as hard as he could with his practice sword.

‘Doesn’t look like a very challenging fight.’ Marcus tried for a joke after standing awkwardly behind his brother for a few moments. Lucius’ movements were violent and jerky, lacking all of the fluid finesse he used to pride himself.

‘Like I could get it!’ Lucius burst out in a gritted half-shout. He threw his wooden sword at the dummy with unchecked force, toppling the tattered thing altogether. He whirled around to face Marcus. He was panting heavily. His hair, drenched in sweat, stuck up in that signature way they both inherited from their father. The familiar brown eyes were almost black in the poor light, and they glinted with something Marcus did not recognise. Stepping close against his uneasy feelings, he put a hand on his brother’s arm.

‘You’ve been at it for a while.’ He observed neutrally. ‘And it’s still early. Maybe take a break for now? We could raid the larder.’

Lucius shrugged off his hand. He snorted as he turned away from Marcus to rummage in a basket. ‘Take a break. Get some snacks. Have some fun. It must be nice to be you.’ he said without looking at Marcus.

Marcus frowned. ‘I was just trying to help. And anyway, you won’t make much progress like this, hitting a bunch of straws.’

His brother stood up abruptly and turned around. Marcus watched him closely, his mouth was twisted in a harsh chuckle, and his fists were tight around a scabbard. Lucius was agitated, that much was clear, though Marcus was having trouble puzzling out why.

‘...Don’t make much progress, indeed.’ He caught the last bit of Lucius’ gritted mumbling, and the realisation came to him too late. For a second he cursed himself for failing to notice his brother’s increased restlessness over the last two months. Of course, it might appear to an onlooker as if Marcus was going places with the company he kept, while Lucius had been stamping his feet in one place. The truth of the matter, that he himself was simply was hanger-on to his friends’ lives, did not matter in the least.

Lucius was meeting his eyes now, face shuttered and grim. ‘You wanted to help?’ he said, tossing the sword he was holding to Marcus.

Marcus caught it easily, but he faltered at the weight. He drew it a fraction to find iron glaring at him. He sucked in a startled breath. ‘Real swords? Are you mad, Lucius? We have no master to supervise us right now.’

‘What? Scared, little brother? That’s too bad. The world waits for no one.’ Lucius laughed and picked up another sword. He unsheathed it carelessly and swung it around, testing his own strength. ‘I was already practicing with real swords when I was your age. Grow up.’ He took his position, jerking his head to indicate that Marcus should do the same.

Marcus hesitated. His own sword was still half-drawn, and he looked at it with some trepidation. They had practiced with actual weapons before on occasion, though their masters only allowed them to use dulled blades — certainly never the sort of heavy steel that rest in Marcus’ hands at the moment. ‘I don’t think this is a very good idea.’ he said slowly, feeling the weight of Lucius’ agitation more keenly than that of the sword.

Lucius barked a laugh. ‘Come on, Marcus. Don’t be a little chick — or have you still not managed to grow any hair on your balls? I know your face is soft, but down there too, eh?’ he taunted. Marcus felt his temper stir, but the petty insults were far from Lucius’ best. Growing up alongside Lucius as he did, he had no trouble shrugging it off.

‘Maybe later.’ he said, sheathing the sword. ‘We can barely see in this light, and you’re tired.’

This only seemed to enrage Lucius further. He rushed forward, swinging his word artlessly. It caught Marcus off-guard, he did not expect Lucius to actually charge at him like that. He twisted to one side and instinctively bringing up the scabbard to block on the other. Lucius’ sword glanced off it, tearing a line in the leather. The momentum was more than Lucius had expected, and the sword went clanging from his hands onto the ground.

Marcus stared at him, panting hard. Anger was finally swelling in him at his brother’s unprovoked attack. Lucius stared back, eyes wild. Marcus was not sure which of them moved first, it was a blur of fists and dusts. One moment he had Lucius in a choke-hold, and the next he was staring up at the sky, trying to kick at his brother’s side. All he could register, as they sprawled spent on the ground, was that he was very sore and dizzy. Next to him, Lucius grunted: ‘I won.’

‘Like hell.’ Marcus protested. He closed his eyes and thought about what Gaius might say if he showed up with a bruised face.

Lucius did not answer. So the two of them lay there on the ground, until the cold dawn made itself known. They picked themselves up and limped inside to go about their separate days as usual. Neither mentioned the fight again. It was by no means their first, they both thought, and nothing unusual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Even the primary sources are very biased in this period (historians agreed that Plutarch and Tacitus had a strong bent towards the old aristocracy and against the principate, while Suet was definitely a Julian fan). I try my best to be non-political (despite the tags) and only speak in the voice of whoever we’re intruding on, but I probably will fail... so please point out if you think it’s getting annoying.
> 
> \- Images not mine:
> 
> I’ve great respect for the ancients, who rode horses without a stirrup. How did they even get on? Youths of our boys’ age (and caste) were expected to be able to ride as well.  
> 
> 
> Wealthy Roman houses (domus) all have peristyle gardens, lined by pillars on all sides, sort of like a cloister.  
> 


	7. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agrippa lost something as a child.

‘Lu! Lu! Ships! ’

Lucius turned to the twittering child at his side. He himself was already six-and-a-half years old, and he knew a great many things. Naturally it fell to him to teach his little brother all about the world.

‘Lucius.’ he said to the boy, taking on his tutor’s way of speaking as best he could. ‘My name is Lucius, you must say it right. Lucius Vipsanius Junior, son of Lucius Vipsanius the salt merchant. Also shipping, and— and bang— banging. Money stuff. Big important book. We look at it and decide who gets to do stuff.’

Little Marcus stared at him. The child’s large eyes were opened very wide, and his mouth formed an ‘o’ of incomprehension. Lucius pursed his lips. Maybe his brother was a bit slow. Lucius could introduce himself and already knew all about their family business at the same age, he was sure. Ah, it could not be helped. Marcus was his baby brother, and he loved him anyway.

‘Lucius.’ he repeated. ‘Just start with that.’

‘Lu-ci-us.’ Marcus obeyed, drawing out the ‘u’ long and proper. Lucius nodded with satisfaction.

‘That will do. What did you say about ships?’

Marcus immediately brightened. His blue eyes shone like those stones that their mother liked to wear. ‘O’er there!’ he cried, pointing back in the general direction of the plaza they had just crossed. Lucius squinted. They were quite drowned in the sea of people, and even he only reached the waist of those around him. All the same, he knew all about ships, enough to know they did not sail in forums.

‘That’s impossible.’ he told Marcus. ‘Ships go over water. Remember?’

Marcus shook his head emphatically, nose scrunching and loose curls bobbing. He needed a haircut, Lucius thought. But it was adorable. ‘They are drawings.’ he said earnestly.

‘Drawings? You mean... on the walls? Like murals?’

The little head nodded, and he pulled on Lucius’ hand. ‘Please, Lu-ci-us. May I look?’

Lucius hesitated. Papa had very sternly forbade them to stray from this side of the forum until he came back. His signature curly head and large frame could be seen facing a vendor only a couple of shops away from where they stood. From his gesticulations, whichever argument he was having was not going to conclude any time soon. Marcus tugged on his hand again. Lucius looked into his pleading eyes — it would only take a few minutes, and this was Marcus’ first visit to The Eternal City. Also he had me!

That final point convinced Lucius; he smiled down at his younger sibling. ‘Sure, why not?’ he said with an air of magnanimity that greatly impressed Marcus.

He gripped the little hand tightly as he followed Marcus’ pointing finger back across the forum, winding their way through the thick crowd. Marcus stopped in front of a very tall wall; it stretched on and on above their heads, going twice or three times as high as the largest temple in their hometown. The wall belonged to the back of an ancient building, whose paint had mostly fallen off. Its columns lay bare, showing dark African marble underneath patches of decoration. It was not dilapidated, but signs of neglect were clear to the eye, and it had that decaying feel of something close to the end of its life. The marble facade was dim like an old man’s eyes.

Around the building, however, life bustled, sharing in the city’s prime. Crowded across the front were various shops and stalls; and behind them lay barrels, crates, and even cattle.

In the corner where the boys stood, the wall was relatively clean and its murals still had some colour. Large patches were missing, but what remained clearly depicted a vivid naval battle. Marcus gave a loud gasp as they drew near. They were looking directly at the elegant bow of a red galley, waves of Egyptian blue foamed and bowed beneath its great body. Proud faces gazed back at them from its deck, the painted eyes rich with triumph. All around and behind this ship were hundreds of others, clambering and scudding across the wall on hundreds of yellow oars. The fleet chased after black columns of smoke, wreathing destruction over some distant unknown land.

Lucius glanced at his brother, having had his fill of the mural. He thought it impressive, but little Marcus seemed to have jumped right into the scene and made himself at home in the thick of battle. His jaw had dropped open, and his stubby fingers pointed here and there, as if he were one of the commanders onboard the flagship, giving orders to his own fleet. Lucius smiled.

A loud crash made him jump, followed by a din of clanks and clunks. A dog bayed in the distance, and the small flock of sheep that had been standing lethargically next to them bleated in fright, trying to scatter and catching themselves on their tethered ropes. Many voices could be heard shouting and arguing, getting louder and louder. Curious, Lucius stepped around a particularly fluffy sheep, cranking his neck above a toppled crate, trying to see what was happening.

A man was standing among the remains of what might have been a large pile of crockery, his face comically red. He reminded Lucius of an oversized apple, his stature matching the fruit almost perfectly. The apple-man gesticulated and fumed — now he looked like a boiling pot — to a group of boys, all standing in front of him with their heads lowered and their arms folded meekly.

Thud. A leather ball caught itself mid-roll at Lucius’ feet. He picked it up and stared at it in wonder — it was much larger and heaver than what they typically used in their hand-ball games back home. Perhaps it belonged to those boys, he realised, quickly looking up.

Two other men stepped out from the gathering crowd; they put their arms around apple-man and spoke to him, trying to placate his temper. Seizing their chance, the boys wasted no time making themselves scarce. Lucius hurried after them; he almost lost them in the crowd before he got the idea of throwing the ball in their direction. It was very heavy, and his small arms could not throw it very far, but it did the job: he got their attention.

It turned out you were meant to kick it with your feet, or so they told him. The leather was too thick and hard to be used like in a hand-ball game, but with their sandalled feet it was possible to send it sailing almost the length of the plaza — if one were good enough, of course. The testament to this lay in pieces in front of Apice’s shop, and they barely escaped with their lives.

Lucius was just starting to get the hang of herding the ball along without kicking it off the ground, when he heard his name roared in a voice he knew very well. The next moment he was completely folded in the crushing arms of his father, holding onto him for dear life. He had never heard his father like that before. Then just as abruptly, Lucius Vipsanius Senior released him and shook his shoulders in a frantic grip.

‘Where is Marcus?’ his father cried. ‘Where is he? Lucius! Where is your brother?’

Lucius stared at him. For a few seconds he could not understand what his father was saying, then it came to him in a horrifying rush: where was Marcus?

‘He— he’s right here!’ he cried back, feeling tears welling in his eyes. ‘At the ships— the ships on the wall!’

His father turned, following his finger; then grabbing Lucius’ hand he whirled towards it, shouting as he went. Lucius scampered along, having quite forgotten about his new friends and new game.

There was nobody there when they reached the spot, save for a bunch of sheep bleating at them balefully.

—

It was the biggest ship Marcus had ever seen, even bigger than the ones on the walls at his uncle’s place. He went to count the oars, but they faded into a smudge of ochre at the back, and anyway he could not count that high yet.

Then there was a very loud crash, and a clatter and a clangour. Many people were shouting; the animals too. He clambered up the steps of the building just in time to avoid being buried under a giant sheep, but now he could not see Lucius anywhere. He bit his lip. Maybe if he climbed higher, he could spot his brother.

‘Oof.’ a tiny voice exclaimed behind him, tinier hands gripped at his side for balance. He reached out to catch them, the soft fingers went willingly into his palm. He spun around slowly, still holding onto them. It was another boy, so small that he was nearly crushed against a tall pillar and Marcus, just as Marcus was almost levelled by that fluffy sheep.

The boy looked up at him with startled eyes. They were extraordinary, pale and reflective like his mother’s silver mirrors — the cloudless spring day tinted them very faintly blue. They made him think of frozen lakes, of snow on a clear day. He remembered seeing snow for the first time that winter, but it had all disappeared as soon as the sun turned golden and the birds began to sing. And yet the boy’s eyes seemed to hold it still, even as his hair crowned them with pale gold.

Marcus thought the boy was very pretty, but before he could say anything to that effect, the boy stuck out his quivering lips and glanced down at his right foot. Marcus’ eyes widened: they were flushed red and showed streaks of dirt from Marcus’ own sandals. He immediately dropped to a crouch and examined the foot, brushing it clean as he did so. Satisfied that it was unharmed, he rose, took the boy’s hands in his and bowed very low, as he had seen townsfolk did to his father when they came to ask his favour.

‘I’m very sorry.’ he said as solemnly as he could. ‘For stepping on you.’ he added, remembering what his father said: he ought to acknowledge his faults if he wished for forgiveness. And he did wish for it right then, more than anything, more than Lucius’ wooden sword, more than his mother’s roasted-nut bread.

The boy looked at him for a moment, then he nodded just as seriously. ‘It is forgiven.’ he said slowly, enunciating each syllable carefully as though he were reciting to a tutor. ‘I am Gai-us Oc-ta-vi-us. Pleased to meet you.’ He rolled his name with extra care.

‘Mar-Marcus Vipsanius. It is an honour.’ Marcus stammered, trying to imitate his father whenever men in purple-lined toga came to speak with him. His father had said they were important, and Marcus was convinced this boy must be as well.

The boy smiled, his entire face lighting up, heating his cheeks to a rosy colour. Small hands returned Marcus’ grip, which in his fluster he had forgotten to slacken. Then, reaching up on tiptoes, the boy leaned forwards and kissed Marcus squarely on the lips.

A light laugh skipped towards them from behind the pillar. Sandalled feet padded around it, and a skirt fluttered to a stop next to them. An old woman bent and crouched to their level, light hair straying from her neat bun as she tilted her head at Octavius.

‘On the cheek, Gaius. You should only kiss your closest friends on the lips. Or not at all if you don’t like them.’ she told him in a gentle and smiling voice.

‘But I like him.’ he replied, not letting go of Marcus’ hands.

The old woman let out a soft ‘oh’ and raised her head to look at Marcus. There was no glaze of age in the sharp blue gaze; he flushed and ducked his head under her regard. She rewarded him with a laugh and a pat on his head.

‘I see. That’s very good. I’m glad my dear Gaius is finally making friends. I was beginning to think all good children gone from Rome, if my cute little grandson should want for friends.’

Marcus chanced a look at her. She had a bony face with prominent cheeks and a high forehead, though not haggard by any means. She wore her age proudly, the etched lines would have made her seem stern and harsh, if not for the patent affection radiating from her as she looked at them.’

‘Can he come back with us, grandmother?’ Octavius interjected, and it took a moment for Marcus to realise what he had just asked. He started a little, meeting the woman’s laughing eyes. 

‘Hm well, I’m afraid he’s taken, my dear. What’s your name, little one? Did you come with your parents?’ she asked him gently.

The question brought Marcus’ predicament back to his mind. He frowned and looked around, fear suddenly rearing back to crash over him. ‘I was with my brother and father, but I can’t see them now.’ he replied.

The woman made a soft sound of distress. She cupped his cheeks in her warm hands and told him in a firm, authoritative voice: ‘We will find them, don’t you worry.’

‘Yes, don’t worry.’ Octavius affirmed the sentiment. He peeped at Marcus from behind a fold of his grandmother’s dress and gave him a shy smile. Marcus smiled back, feeling a great deal better.

Octavius’ grandmother took Marcus’ right hand with bony, withered fingers. She felt behind herself for her own ward, but the boy quickly darted out of her grasp and attached himself to Marcus’ side, catching his other hand. She gave an exasperated, fond sigh, before standing up and leading them away slowly. Her grip on Marcus’ hand was strong despite her frail apprance, and he made sure to hold onto Octavius just as tightly.

The three of them weaved a sedate pace across the stone floor, avoiding large groups of gesticulating men and their trail of unarmed but surly-looking bodyguards. Nobody paid them a second glance, but at every second pillar Octavius’ grandmother paused to look behind her, as though she was worried her wayward boy might disappear into the crowd. Marcus was a little offended — he would never let go of Octavius!

She seemed to sense this, and with a chuckle she continued, running a commentary to them as she walked: ‘Now, just as well that I am meeting Flavius here. If you could spell your family name, we should be able to find them in no time. If not, we will need to enlist some help, but it is easy enough...’

They came to a halt in front of an low nook at the far end of the building. A curtain draped half-closed across the arch, giving those inside some pretence of privacy in the bustle of the place. Octavius’ grandmother simply drew it aside and ushered in her boys, drawing the half-hearted glare of a man stooping over a mountain of clay tablets. On recognising her, he dropped the dour expression immediately and sidled around his desk with a toothy grin.

Octavius’ grandmother exchanged quick words with the toothy man, gesturing to Marcus. Within moments, he had given the man his name, his father’s, and that of his hometown — he could not spell them, but he tried his best to pronounce the words as clearly as Octavius had done. He cast a shamefaced look at Octavius, but the other boy simply smiled at him again, eyes glittering in the dim light.

Mister Toothy stuck his head outside and began barking out orders, while Octavius’ grandmother picked up a thick document and sat down to pursue it, leaving the boys alone for the moment. Octavius’ tiny hands tugged at Marcus’.

‘Where is Ar-pi-ni-um?’ he asked Marcus in that slow and careful way of his. He seemed fascinated with Marcus’ larger hands, turning them this way and that as he spoke.

‘Very far. Maybe three days.’ Marcus replied, then after a moment of pondering he added: ‘There are mountains. I saw snow.’

Octavius’ eyes widened. ‘Are they tall? Grandma said there will be some in Ve-li-trae.’

‘Where is that?’ Marcus asked in return, but Octavius shook his head and looked down at their hands.

‘I don’t know.’ he said. ‘That is where I’m going with grandma.’

‘Your parents?’ Marcus asked, staring at the other boy in confusion. Octavius seemed sad somehow, though he neither wailed nor did any of the things Marcus would do when he was upset; his little feet dangled from their perch on the sofa, wading through some imaginary water.

‘Mama isn’t coming. Papa is dead.’ he replied after a while.

‘Oh.’ was all Marcus could say. He tried to grapple with it, but he did not know how to even begin. In his mind, his father and mother were as solid and unchanging as the mountains themselves; the thought that they could not be there anymore never occurred to him. He knew things die, like the snail that Lucius insisted was his pet, and old man potter that his father knew but he never met, but it simply never clicked to him that parents could die too.

Octavius did not say anything else. Their silence was broken instead by his grandmother. ‘He went on a journey, Gaius. And you will see him again.’ She had folded her document neatly in her lap, and she peered at him with her ever-sharp eyes, the authority in them only tempered by deep affection.

Octavius shrugged, the gesture clumsy on his small shoulders, as though he had not learnt it well enough. He withdrew his hand from Marcus’. Marcus felt tears prick at his eyes, he shook his head vigorously to deny them the chance, but a stray drop rolled down his cheek despite his effort.

For the second time that day, a commotion fell suddenly on him with no preamble. All he had in warning before the curtain ripped backwards and his father came hurtling in like a chariot was the thundering of footsteps. In a split second he was enveloped in the familiar sturdy arms; Lucius’ voice trilled and wailed from somewhere behind him. ‘Marcus, my dear Marcus, oh Jupiter, oh Vesta...!’ — ‘I’m sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to let go!’ — ‘Don’t cry, my child, papa is here, nothing to fear..!’

Marcus would like to point out that he did not cry at all when he realised he was alone without Lucius, but he was utterly buried under the combined force of his father and brother. He turned his head to look at Octavius, but this time it was him who was greeted with an empty spot — the other boy was nowhere to be found.

He tried to squirm out of his father’s hold and cranked his neck to search for the blond boy. There he was! He stood with his hand in his grandmother’s grasp, and she was speaking quickly with Mister Toothy and another tall, dark man. Toothy made exaggerated pleading gestures to her, while the other man tried to draw her by the elbow. She nodded to something he said and began to pull away hurriedly, Octavius in tow.

‘Wait!’ Marcus yelled and waved at their retreating backs frantically. Octavius’ grandmother was still speaking to the man flanking her and did not notice him, but the boy turned around as he walked. He waved at Marcus as best he could; Marcus was certain he smiled before they all disappeared behind a tall pillar.

—

‘What are you looking at?’ Marcus started as Gaius’ voice cut through his trance. He wondered whether it actually took practice to move as soundlessly as his friend did, and whether he was secretly training to become an assassin.

He came to stand next to Marcus, pinning his coin pouch away safely in the folds of his toga. There was a new money-changer stall just opened at this spot in front of the old Basilica Fulvia, a convenient hop from his favourite bookshop. He had laughed when he heard of the plan to demolish the old building, which had deteriorated rapidly in the last few years, to be replaced with a new Basilica named after the senior consul. How the consul Aemilius Paulus had gotten the funds for this undertaking was anybody’s guess.

‘Nothing. Just a mural.’ Marcus replied, pointing at the shabby wall in front of him. Gaius stared at it in critical silence. It seemed to almost tremble under his regard.

‘It certainly requires intense focus to discern what this was originally about, I’ll grant you that.’ he said at last.

‘A naval battle.’ Marcus proclaimed without pause. Seeing Gaius’ disbelief, he chuckled and pointed to a patch where some of the paint had remained. ‘See here? This vermillion belonged to a ship, and you can see bits of Egyptian blue beneath it if you look carefully.’

‘Sure.’ Gaius agreed after giving the lower wall a glance. ‘I didn’t know you were into art. A solider and an artist. Tell Quintus, he will think it most romantic.’ he commented drily.

Marcus thumped him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Don’t jest, you know I have no head for paint or poetry. No, it’s just... this one. I’ve seen it before.’

‘Before? As in, the last time you came to Rome? When was that again?’

‘When I was three, according to Lucius. I don’t really remember it.’

Gaius raised an eyebrow at him. ‘How did you recognise this mural if you don’t remember? And from very little of it too.’

Marcus could only shrug his shoulders helplessly. ‘I don’t know. Something felt familiar about it, but not the mural itself.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Gaius furrowed his brows, clearly saying with his searching eyes that he thought Marcus had gone barmy.

‘It felt like... I lost something important here, I guess. Though I can’t remember what.’ Marcus scratched his head, trying to cast his mind back, but the only memories that came to his call were blurred shapes of colours, flashes of gold and shining silver. He said as much as Gaius, who frowned.

‘Er— maybe you lost your protective medallion here, and had to get a new one? Though that would have been a terrible omen for a child.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘No no, I have always had this one.’ He fingered the well-worn amulet that his father had ordered specifically for him, the familiar inscription carving the stars of his birth onto gold. He lapsed into a reflective silence.

‘Well— have you asked your father, then? If it’s important.’ Gaius threw him a concerned glance.

He looked up at his friend, into shining grey like a winter pool in the pine woods near Arpinium. He smiled, drawing away from the wall and draping an arm across Gaius’ shoulders. ‘No, I don’t think that’s necessary. I have a feeling I found it in the end.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I envision maybe 2 ‘arcs’ before shit hits the Rubicon, but the next part might take a while. I’ve been putting off research for too long: it might be concerning to hear but I still haven’t really sketched the major characters of Caesar, Cicero, and Pompey in my head... In the meantime I think I’ll only be able to churn out fluff.
> 
> \- Images not mine:
> 
> The Basilica Aemilia, built by the senior consul in 50 BC with uhh donations from Caesar.  
> 
> 
> The interior might look something like this. An ancient basilica before Christianity is a public building, not a church (though it might serve some religious purposes)  
> 


	8. A Spring Out of Time (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 50 BC, late April - early May.
> 
> Gaius is sick, and Agrippa is impertinent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I’ve been spelling ‘Arpinum’ as ‘Arpinium’ this entire time. Maybe I had ‘aluminium’ in my head or something equally stupid. I’m going to go back and re-edit the previous chapters soon anyway, I’ll fix it then. In any case, ‘Arpinium’ -> ‘Arpinum’  
> \- Another coming change in the edit: Jr. -> filius (son of). My dislike for ‘Junior’ grew and grew until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

Gaius did not escape the consequences of his actions. A few days after their pretend-war on the river bank, he fell ill — almost collapsed from it.

In the few months that Marcus had known him, the rather delicate looking boy had exuded such vitality that Marcus was inclined to regard his parents’ hovering as overprotectiveness. Except for the bout of wheezing coughs he suffered early in their acquaintance, Gaius had been in perfectly normal health for a boy their age. He ran, played catch, and even sparred with Cicero filius (even winning occasionally, when his use of ‘unorthodox’ tactics paid off). He was not particularly tough, nor was his endurance remarkable, but he certainly was not as fragile as he seemed.

Right then, though, Marcus gazed upon his friend’s prone form and thought, with stricken anxiety, that he looked as weak as candle flame in a storm.

He had finally fallen asleep, after their grammaticus took one look at his blotchy face and promptly ordered him to bed. Marcus’ focus, which was never that good to begin with, suffered heavily that morning. The Greek text they had been studying blurred in front of his eyes as though he was the one with a fever. Finally, Tyrannion had thrown up his hands in despair, ordered the remaining two boys to have the entire poem copied and translated five times by the next day, and dismissed the class.

Gaius did not stir when Marcus and Cicero poked their heads into his room. The latter had moved first; he was frowning down at Gaius, a strange mix of genuine concern and something like disapproval on his face when Marcus joined him. He clicked his tongue, and with a mumbled ‘get well soon’ that went unheard, he departed from the sick boy’s bedside, but not before asking Marcus whether he would see him at the Campus Martius that afternoon. To this Marcus gave a distracted negative reply, and Cicero left with a shrug.

That had been two hours ago, and Gaius had not stirred since, save for the occasional twitching of his pinched brows. His fever seemed to be worsening: beads of sweat were starting to roll down his face and neck, and he shivered despite being rolled up in layers and layers of woollen blankets. A doctor had been to see him, evidenced by the half-finished herbal concoction at his bedside. Its pungent smell lingered in the air, where it twined with the cloying heat of a high-burning brazier, turning the room into the inside of a cauldron.

Rain hesitated by the window, softly pattering against drawn shutters that admitted no wind. It was suffocating inside, and even Marcus was feeling light-headed. He tried to concentrate on his well-deserved homework, giving up when a soft moan caught his attention. Uncurling from his place by the window, he approached the bed.

Gaius’ face was blotched with red, the colour climbing high on his pale neck and all over his cheeks, cresting upon his pinched brows. The thin skin of his eyelids trembled, blue veins clearly visible in the brightly lit room. His lips, unusually pale, looked painfully parched. He parted them in a quiet groan; it lodged in Marcus’ throat and hung somewhere in his stomach, heavy.

‘Gaius, you should drink some water.’ he said, shaking the other boy slightly. Another groan answered him. He poured half a cup from the silver decanter by the bed, and leaving it on its table, he sat down next to Gaius’ head. ‘Gaius.’ he tried again. This time, the eyelids fluttered open and the other boy blinked up at him, a heavy glaze clouding his grey eyes like smoke covering daylight.

‘Marcus?’ he muttered. A fist of coughs punctuated his query; he turned over, gasping for breath. Marcus ignored the sharp twist of his insides and laid an arm around Gaius’ shoulders, pulling him up as gently as he could. Once sitting half-upright, Gaius began to breathe easier. He sat for a while, drawing raspy breaths.

‘You need to keep drinking water, doctor’s orders.’ Marcus did not know what the man actually said, if anything, but he remembered well his own mother’s insistent hand pressing a goblet to his mouth, on the very few occasions he had taken ill.

Gaius accepted the cup with shaky hands, allowing Marcus to guide it to his dry lips. He managed a few gulps, then with a grimace, he returned the cup to Marcus and sagged against his shoulders, breathing shallowly.

‘Uncle Caesar never got sick, you know.’ he rasped.

Marcus ran a soothing hand across his friend’s shoulders. ‘I’m sure he had. Everybody gets sick once in a while.’ he told Gaius very reasonably. The flaxen head, darkened with sweat, shook against his neck.

‘Not Caesar. He never... he never stumbled and fell. Not even when he was running from Sulla.’ Gaius said stubbornly, even as his voice came out hoarse and trembling.

Marcus hummed noncommittally. He knew about Caesar’s feats, of course, which Roman did not? Sometimes it felt as though Caesar was not a man, but something out of legends, invincible and impossible. The boy in his arms, on the other hand, was very real. Gaius’ skin scalded his where they touched — How could such a small body give off so much heat? He was growing hotter by the minute, as though he were a nearly-spent candle bursting into tall flames as its wick outlives its dying wax. Marcus tightened his arms around him.

‘You never fell either.’ He told Gaius, who managed to glance up at him dubiously. ‘You’re fighting, aren’t you?’ He chuckled. ‘Always taking obstacles by the horns, so they can’t bowl you over.’

Gaius was peering at him strangely. The haze in his eyes had cleared slightly, and he gazed up at Marcus with a puzzled expression.

‘It’s true that I’ve managed to not die so far.’ he said slowly. ‘Thank you for the compliment, I guess.’ He sighed, closing his eyes tiredly and sagging even lower in Marcus’ hold. ‘Yeah. I might die at any time, I stare that fact in the face every day and beat it. I’m pretty awesome.’ he mumbled into Marcus’ chest.

Marcus smiled, easing him onto his bed. ‘How dramatic. Must be a very decisive victory every morning, seeing as you always have the energy to wind up Cicero.’ he teased the other boy.

‘You’re so mean.’ Gaius cracked open his eyes and smiled at him. It was a tiny smile, the corners of his mouth barely lifted and his eyes glittered with fever-tears, but radiating such unguarded affection it made Marcus blush. He coughed, looking away, casting around for something to say.

Gaius saved him the trouble. ‘I still wish I were more like uncle though. He knows and sees everything. There’s nothing he can’t do. They said... at my age he could ride a galloping horse with his arms tied around his back. Probably while doing arithmetic in his head too...’ he rambled, voice growing weaker as his eyes slipped shut.

Marcus drew the blankets up to his chin. ‘I could show you, if you’d like. It’s not impossible once you tune yourself to the beast’s rhythm.’ he commented absently, but Gaius seemed to have fallen back into sleep, his chest falling and rising more steadily, if still a little laboured. Marcus called for a fresh basin of water and wiped the sweat from his friend’s face as gently as he could. Earlier, Gaius had flinched when the household slaves touched his bare skin, even though they did so with utmost deferential care. Now he sighed under Marcus’ hands and burrowed further into his blankets.

He was still burning up, but there was not much else Marcus could do, save perhaps to clear the air. It was probably sensible to warm the room when one suffered from winter sickness, but he recalled Gaius’ discomfort with the heavy air of a steam bath, and even now his sleep was interrupted with wheezes that sounded nothing like the normal coughs of someone sick from the elements. Mind made up, Marcus asked for the brazier to be reduced to almost nothing and drew the shutters half-open himself. The slave who came to do his bidding glanced at him suspiciously, but he paid her no mind, going back to his homework and silent vigil.

He knew he ought to leave, that it was a little inappropriate for him to take over the care of his friend, but could not bring himself to do so.

Some time passed, and when he blinked up from his finished work, bleary-eyed, the rain had long stopped, the sun was already halfway on its decline. Afternoon sunbeams streamed through the shutters to play on Gaius’ mussed hair; the flaxen strands knotted and splayed wildly, like a wheat field during harvest. If Gaius were awake he might have been mortified, but he was still asleep, drawing slow, uneven breaths.

Footsteps sounded beyond the doorway. Marcus turned his head, meeting the gaze of Gaius’ mother accidentally. He hastily lowered his eyes and clambered to his feet.

‘Ma’am.’ He inclined his head politely. A flutter of blue fabric flitted across his vision, and Gaius’ mother came to stand at her son’s bedside without a second glance at him. He forced himself to breathe normally and still his nerves. There was no reason to be jumpy, he was simply taking care of a friend, and he had not overstepped, not really—

‘How is he?’ Gaius’ mother — Atia — asked without looking at him. Marcus could not quite bring himself to refer to her by name: he had met her of course, she did live under the same roof as Gaius after all, but she had never directly addressed him before. It had always been ‘you boys’, counting Gaius and the Cicero brethren.

Marcus hesitated. ‘He’s... he’s not doing too well, ma’am.’ he said eventually, deciding that Gaius’ well-being was far more important than any squeamishness he might hold towards aristocratic matrons. ‘Perhaps it’d be advisable to invite the doctor around again to check up on him?’

Gaius’ mother did not answer. She half-turned, her dark eyes assessing him silently. He lifted his head, met her gaze, and held it.

It seemed an eternity before she broke away. Marcus let out a breath, feeling uncomfortably dissected, but taking the lack of an immediate dismissal as victory.

‘It’s a little cold in here.’ she remarked.

Marcus blinked, then flushed. ‘I thought it would help, ma’am.’ he said. ‘Ga— Octavius was getting too warm, and coal fumes tend to irritate him.’

‘Hm.’ Was that a note of anger? He could not tell. Gaius’ mother was not easy to read. ‘There’s no need to call the doctor around then, since you know so well.’ she said, bending down slightly to peer over the contents of her son’s medicine pot.

That did not sound promising. Marcus made a stammering sound, the beginning of a clumsy apology falling from his mouth, but she cut him off. ‘Not this one in any case.’ She straightened, clicking her tongue. ‘Bacchios is a quack. Fortunately Titius dallied on his vacation, and I caught him just in time. He should be here soon.’

Not knowing what to say, Marcus clamped his mouth shut and nodded dumbly. After a moment, Gaius’ mother spoke again, her voice light and pleasant.

‘You must think me rather heartless.’

Marcus’ head shot up so fast he heard his neck creaked. ‘No— not at all, ma’am.’ he managed before falling silent. What was he meant to do? Compliment the noble lady on her child-rearing skills? Reassure her of his opinions towards her? It sounded rather absurd in his head, and for a moment he had a distinct impression that Gaius’ mother did not like him, but was, for whatever reason, tolerating his presence near her son.

‘No?’ She chuckled, turning around to face him fully. ‘Tell me, Agrippa, about your family.’

He felt rather disoriented by the speed at which she spun through topics of conversation, and surprised besides, since she must have known of his origins even before they were properly introduced — she had accepted his association with her son readily enough, and for all appearances was as indifferent to him as to any of Gaius’ other friends. Nevertheless, he tried his best to answer her.

‘I... My family is from Arpinum, we are a humble plebeian clan, though my father is a member of the Equestrian Order. We... own some land, but made most of our wealth through shipping contracts.’ he said, trying to choose his words carefully. It was true enough, he felt, for they were truly regular land-owning folks, had never attained any senatorial office, and could boast not a hint of either patrician blood or that of the royal names from bygone kingdoms that now made up their republic. The matter of one’s ancestral homeland and the make-up of parentage that divided them into Roman, Latin, Venetian, or any other stock, simply did not occur to him — he knew they were provincial, of course, but the fact never grew from geographical to genealogical in his mind.

Gaius’ mother studied him in silence, neither showing approval or scorn at his reply. A ghost of indignation touched the back of his mind; he pushed it away and adopted his best neutral stance — they might not be lofty, or even famously self-made like the Ciceros, but neither were they land-less, class-less, honour-less. If he had to earn his place by Gaius’ side, so be it, he would.

All of a sudden, she titled her head and smiled, her dark eyes glimmered with good humour. Despite their contrast in colouring, she looked remarkably like her son then. Marcus blinked, whiplash.

‘I already know that, young Agrippa.’ she told him, ‘I’m asking about your family, not your clan. What are your parents like? Have you any siblings?’ Her demeanour seemed to change, growing warmer. Marcus felt himself relax a fraction.

‘Three, ma’am.’ he answered, ‘my eldest brother is Lucius, he turns seventeen this year — we have two sisters. Our father is strict. He expects that Lucius and I should always be at the top of our grammar class, and he makes sure that we can fight as well... personally makes sure, actually. He always said true men need to seek their glory in the army at some point.’ He paused, glancing at the noble matron, who hummed in mild agreement. He hesitated before continuing, ‘...my mother was our own tutor when we were younger, before father hired Demetrius to see to our education. She still sometimes teaches us to sing, despite father’s objections. She’s... very kind.’

Gaius’ mother nodded. ‘You love her very much?’ she asked. Marcus felt himself flushing.

‘Y-yes, ma’am.’ he admitted. It probably was not a very manly thing to do, and he did not want to be known as a mama’s boy — he never was — still, he realised with a start, he had not seen her for three months. ‘And father, too.’ then, after a moment’s hesitation: ‘I miss them.’

She blinked at him, as though taken aback by his admission. Jupiter, what was he doing, pouring his childish emotions out to a highborn lady who no doubt prized fortitude above all else?

‘I see.’ she said after a moment. ‘Then what are you doing here, Marcus Agrippa — all by yourself? By the side of a friend you scarcely know?’ she asked, again in that pleasant tone that he was beginning to suspect marked the opposite.

‘I— Lucius and I are in Rome to study—’

She interrupted him, all interest in his family life gone. ‘Most of his friends are from Equestrian families, with the exception of the Cicero boys, and even they are of plebeian origin. Claudius Pulcher filius... hardly counts.’ she sneered, almost to herself. ‘So it’s not at all strange to count another one in his circles — it’s not like he could cultivate the friendship of the more powerful ones, anyway — But what’s curious, Marcus Agrippa, is how fast you’ve risen in his regard, and how deep you’ve burrowed yourself at his side.’ Her dark eyes glittered at him, making him feel a foot tall. ‘Tell me, how far do you think you can use him to rise?’

Marcus’ pride snarled from inside him; he swallowed against it with great difficulty — both he and Lucius had inherited their father’s temper, but this was important. He forced his eyes to meet hers, and taking a deep breath he said: ‘As far as he does, ma’am.’ He could tell she was taken aback by his blasé reply; he soldiered on. ‘He is brilliant, and deserves to be something great. Consul, definitely. Or whatever else he chooses. And I will help him get there.’

Gaius’ mother stared at him, something flickered in her dark brown eyes before she spoke: ‘As client and patron? You have already decided?’

‘Yes.’ he replied without hesitation, though inside he cringed — what decision? He had not even thought about it before, thinking it too far off in the future to warrant consideration. Was he seriously pledging his eternal loyalty to Gaius Octavius? Taking a vow that could not be honourably broken? His gaze flickered to the boy in question, still sound asleep, the sunlight stroking his pale face just so.

‘Then you will rise and fall as he does.’ Atia’s voice sliced through his momentary daze. She was also looking at Gaius. ‘Did you know, he is something of a patrician impostor? I may say that deep down he considers himself plebeian, despite the Octavii’s status as newly-minted patricians, courtesy of my uncle.’ She sighed, and for a split second seemed weary, but it was gone so fast that Marcus was convinced he must have imagined it.

‘My husband was a very wealthy man. Obscenely so. He was talented enough, and handsome too. Gaius has his eyes.’ She touched his head, earning no reaction from him. ‘But otherwise he looked a Julian through and through, a little like Caesar’s dead daughter perhaps, though I hope he grows out of it.’

She withdrew her hand and turned back to Marcus. ‘Marrying me had been the best decision my husband ever made. Do you understand why?’

He shook his head.

‘I am a member of the Atii, of course, and could lend him no patrician prestige. But it doesn’t work that way anymore. Hasn’t for a long time.’ She said absently, as though not expecting him to understand. ‘Allying with my uncle shot his career to the sky. If he had not taken ill and died, he would have become consul that year. No matter, Philippus did just as well.’ She moved towards Gaius’ bed and picked up the offending medicine, scrunching her nose a little. She stepped away, coming to a stop in front of Marcus. ‘Do you understand, child, how important it is to be noticed by Caesar?’

He nodded at once, though not for any of the unexplained reasons she had hinted, it was actually quite simple in his mind: Gaius admired his great-uncle deeply, and coming into the great man’s regard would bring him happiness like no other.

Gaius’ mother glanced over her shoulder at her son, her mouth tightening. ‘Even if he does, I’m not at all sure he will like what he sees. A frail, sickly boy with his nose in a book. Rather too pretty to be a good thing. No close friends. None of that genius that marked Caesar as a child. I have tried to encourage Gaius’ physical activities and nudged him towards better acquaintanceship. He was doing so well, for a while I thought he could grow into it.’

Marcus gritted his teeth, reminding himself that this was Gaius’ mother. ‘I think he is doing fine, ma’am.’ he ground out, the insolence unsuccessfully masked.

Atia glanced at him, but she seemed to be more amused than offended. ‘Well, there is time yet.’ she conceded. ‘And having an extraordinarily promising young man following him around can only be a good thing. Caesar does value a man’s talent for cultivating good helpers.’

He was not sure whether to take affront at her remark, but before he could decide, she had moved on, and with swift strides that were almost too long for a woman, she passed out of the room.

—

Four days later, Gaius’ condition improved markedly. The new doctor had prescribed him bed rest, clean air, lots of water, and a sort of spicy tea brewed from Achillea leaves. Gaius pulled a face but drank it obediently, only demanding sweetbread afterwards.

‘I’m bored.’ he told Marcus for the umpteenth time that day. Marcus rolled his eyes, trying to focus on his work.

‘That word doesn’t mean “weasel”’ — he draped himself along Marcus’ back and peeked over his shoulder.

‘I know.’ Marcus replied with a sigh, his hand felt numb from the amount of extra work that Tyrannion had assigned them, as though the old grammaticus had a set amount of homework that he must dole out to be satisfied, and Gaius’ absence meant the rest of them had better pick up the slack.

‘Show off all you like when you come back to class tomorrow.’ he told the other boy, shoving him off with no force. Gaius no longer had a fever, but he still looked worn around the edges; his skin was pallid; his eyes not quite as alert as usual, and there were dark circles around them, even though he had spent most of the time asleep. He also smelled strongly of herbs.

Gaius gave a whine and slipped down to burrow himself in his blankets again. ‘That’s just it.’ he said, voice slightly muffled and hoarse, but it no longer sounded painful. ‘It’s my last day off, I want to do something.’

Marcus ignored him. His punishment was a sharp jab to the tailbone. He let out an undignified yelp, and throwing his work aside, threw himself onto his menace of a friend in seek of revenge. It was a difficult task, since on top of Gaius’ underhanded wrestling tactics, Marcus had to be mindful not to use too much force, or even rest his weight on the other boy, wary of his not quite recovered state.

He ended up pinning Gaius’ wrists, while twisting his body awkwardly to avoid the other’s kicks. They grinned at each other; up close Marcus could see that his long eyelashes were as pale as his hair; light shattered through them to fall on the silver pools of his eyes. Fascinating.

Someone coughed from the doorway, catching their attention. Marcus sat up, releasing his friend and trying to still his wildly beating heart. That was strange— no.

He had no time to dwell on it, as Gaius sprang up immediately when he caught sight of their visitor. He cried out, astonished: ‘Sphaerus!’

The pure joy in his voice startled Marcus. He had known Gaius to show mirth, affection, and sometimes cruelty (Bibulus had it coming though, Marcus shrugged to himself), but never this blatant childlike happiness.

He turned to watch the newly arrived man amble towards them. The man, a portly middle-aged fellow with huge arms, a curling grey beard and a twinkle in his eyes, made to kneel down by the bed, but Gaius foiled his plan by flinging himself across the man’s middle, hugging him tight.

‘Sphaerus! You came!’ he said into the man’s sizeable belly. A large hand came to stroke his mussed hair, untangling the strands with a gentleness that belied their rough appearance.

‘I did, little master. Have you gotten smaller?’ the man — Sphaerus — asked in a smiling, rumbling voice.

‘You’ve gotten fatter.’ Gaius protested, punching Sphaerus’ torso. The slave — he must be one, from his address to Gaius — made an ‘oof’ sound and folded Gaius in his arms, a smile lighting up his genial face.

‘It’s good to see you again, domine.’ he patted Gaius’ head affectionately, completely at odds with the respectful address. Marcus raised an eyebrow at them.

‘Yes, when did you get here? I thought mama wanted you to stay in Velitrae? She said no when I asked — Oh! This is Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, my best friend! Marcus, this is Sphaerus, he’s been my carer since I was a babe.’

Sphaerus let go of Gaius and offered Marcus a deep bow, then he sprang back up and resumed immediately the easy demeanour. ‘It’s an honour to meet the little master’s “best friend”, why, I never thought I’d live to see the day where he had any.’

Marcus stared, mouth falling open in astonishment. Gaius had mostly treated their household slaves as any Roman should: by pretending they were part of the furniture. Freedmen such as Merry got acknowledgement, but on the whole Gaius disliked anybody not of his station touching him, let alone allowing them to speak so callously to him. With Sphaerus, however, he pouted and took the man’s hand, gazing up at him with such trust and affection that Marcus felt a twinge of the most ridiculous envy.

‘Stop making fun of me, Sphaerus, and tell me how you came to be here. Didn’t mama order you to stay in Velitrae?’

‘Domina herself sent for me, little master.’ Sphaerus replied, then kneeling down, he took Gaius’ face in his hands and peered at him with a frown. ‘The messenger said you had taken ill, I had thought it was those fevers you always had at the seasons’ turn, but you look exhausted. Have you been sick all this time? I got the news two days ago.’

Gaius nodded. ‘Forbidden to leave this bed. You rode here without rest?’ he asked with some concern.

Sphaerus laughed. ‘Of course, I’m a man in the pink of health, not an elderly grandpa.’ He patted his stomach. ‘And I was worried about you.’

‘I’m fine now.’ said Gaius cheerfully, then less upbeat: ‘Will you be staying?’

‘Yes.’ Sphaerus said, the twinkle in his eyes growing brighter as he gazed at his charge. ‘Domina changed her mind. She said I had better stay here and make sure you don’t hurt yourself again.’

‘It wasn’t my fault that I fell sick.’ Gaius protested, but he was grinning as well, beyond pleased by the news. Then he seemed to remember something and frowned. ‘I don’t need a babysitter though. I’m glad you’re here, Sphaerus, but you had better find something to occupy yourself. I’m only a few years from my majority now.’

Sphaerus smiled, apparently anticipating this. He patted Gaius’ head and said fondly: ‘Not to worry, little master. My official duties are bookkeeping and overseeing the kitchen. I’ll just be keeping an eye on you on the side — so no more stolen sweet treats.’ He twinkled at Gaius, who glared at him before brightening suddenly.

‘If you’re in charge of me now — let me outside for the rest of the day! And don’t tell anybody about it! I’m about bored to death in here.’

‘No, I forbid it.’ the firm pronouncement came not from Sphaerus, and it took Marcus a moment to realise he had been the one who said it. Gaius turned to him, mouth falling open in surprise and hurt.

‘You can’t forbid me anything.’ he said, offended.

‘Maybe not.’ Marcus replied, squashing the uneasiness he felt at denying Gaius something he wanted. ‘But I can stop you. You’re not fully recovered, Gaius. It’s not safe, what if the gasping attack came on you again? You were almost blue in the face just three days ago, have you already forgotten?’

His admonishment did not sit well with Gaius, even if he saw the sense in it. He glowered at Marcus and bit his still-pale lips.

‘He’s right.’ Sphaerus spoke up. Marcus turned towards him, having almost forgotten the man’s presence. His brown eyes were fixed on Marcus, studying him thoughtfully.

‘He’s right, little master.’ repeated Sphaerus. ‘When sickness comes back, it tends to be with a vengeance. You don’t want to worry everybody again, do you?’ In a softer tone he added, ‘I never want to see you almost die again, Gaius.’

Gaius nodded reluctantly, mumbling under his breath about exaggeration. Marcus draped an arm around his shoulders in a half-hug. ‘Cheer up, Gaius. I’ll show you — in the atrium, not outside — how I trounced Cicero in one move at practice the other day. You should see the look on his face.’

The idea quickly raised Gaius’ spirits, and before long he was already demanding a bath and a snack, ordering Marcus to carefully recall Cicero’s defeat in as much detail as possible, while he was gone. Sphaerus left to arrange his own living quarters, and Marcus had a few moments to himself and his neglected homework. He took the time to congratulate himself on saying no to his wilful friend; he had a feeling he was going to need the practice.

—

Sphaerus sat at a small writing desk in the corner of the atrium, his nose deep in a stack of papers and brows furrowed at the abacus in front of him. His writing tablet was a mess of numbers. He considered himself fairly competent at the art of organising accounts — when he was younger, he thought perhaps one day he would buy his freedom and earn a living as a bank clerk, then perhaps tried to find his old village... But now — his gaze wandered, distracted, to where two young boys were engaged in a slow-motion mock-fight — now he had something more important.

The little master clapped his hands and laughed, immensely satisfied by the play-by-play reconstruction that his friend was showing him. Agrippa spun around as though taking on the role of someone else, and fell to the ground with an exaggerated look of horror on his face. Gaius nearly bent double in laughter, and even from here Sphaerus could see the look of warm affection he gave the other boy.

Sphaerus smiled to himself. He had not lied, at some point he had truly worried Gaius would never find a true friend for himself — certainly when his time came he would cultivate a web of relationships the way all men involved in politics did — but Sphaerus was a simple slave and a Greek; he still believed that no soul was complete without a life-defining friendship. His Roman masters might scoff at the idea, choosing rather to structure their society on the befuddling concepts of clientela and amicitia — what they called ‘friendship’. Sphaerus respectfully disagreed, and would much rather that his little master have a true philia bond in his life.

He studied the two.

Agrippa, tall and broad for his age, moderately tanned as boys who spent their entire childhoods in the sun would. A hint of defined muscles was already showing on his adolescent limbs. Ruffled black curls falling into blue eyes and brushing the sides of his strong brow, his grin dimpled and charming — the lad was going to be very handsome, no doubt. He had a big presence, awkwardly fitted into the background when his station demanded it, and even then he managed to loom like a great wolf — well, a great pup. His voice was just beginning to break — did he even notice, Sphaerus wondered. He was growing up fast, and into a fine young man. A strong physique, and the will to match. It was a good thing he had a fair and loyal heart, as far as Sphaerus could tell.

Gaius was nearly the same as he was in Sphaerus’ memory, on the day he left Velitrae, alone and without his grandmother. He had grown — taller now, and still only up to Agrippa’s neck — he was never going to be very tall, but if his growth spurt kicked in at some point he would at least not be too short. He was still thin, though no longer frail; his wrists were too fine to ever be a skilled swordsman — a point somebody would have to point out to him eventually. At least his calves were toned, the result no doubt of trudging up and down Rome’s hills every day. Perhaps that was why their legions were so good at marching, Sphaerus smirked at his own joke.

Agrippa and Gaius were a study in contrast. The former so striking and promising that it was almost a pity he was not Caesar’s relation instead of his friend — the small blonde boy with features too delicate for a Roman male. And not just in physical appearance, Sphaerus added to himself. Gaius was as mercurial as he ever was, prone to both brooding silences and flares of temper. By himself in the baths, he sat still and stared at the water in unseeing thought, Sphaerus might have thought it disturbing if he did not already have a soft spot for the boy. Agrippa, on the other hand, was the antithesis of ‘still’. Even as he sat listening to their conversation earlier, there had been a tension all about him, his eyes flicking this way and that, his fingers drumming faintly on his own thigh. He was motion caged, fire barely contained; Sphaerus was reminded again of a wolf — pup. Yet his restlessness was paradoxically steady, nothing unexpectedly deadly about it. Sphaerus decided that he liked the boy.

A shadow fell over his desk, interrupting his reflection. Gaius’ face swam into view, nose scrunched adorably in thought as he studied Sphaerus’ work upside-down.

‘You made a mistake here.’ He pointed to a row in one of Sphaerus’ multiplication tables. ‘Rounded the first number, making it odd. It should be even. So the rest is wrong.’

Sphaerus chuckled. ‘So it is.’ he agreed. ‘And now I have to do it again, but at least the numbers will make sense this time.’

Behind him, Agrippa stared, eyes wide with wonder. ‘You’re very fast. I can barely read this.’

‘Why, thank you for the compliment on my handwriting.’ Sphaerus quipped, but Agrippa’s attention was fixed only on his friend. His midnight-blue eyes glinted with admiration and affection.

‘That’s pretty useful.’ he said to Gaius, who smiled faintly.

‘If my greatest ambition were to become Camp Prefect, maybe. I’d rather be good at manoeuvring on horseback, or coming up with good battle plans.’ Gaius said in that deprecating tone that told Sphaerus he had been thinking silly thoughts again.

‘Hey, that’s not true. Cavalry charges are what rank-and-file soldiers are for, and the best battle plans are those made way before the first legionary is raised. You know this, Gaius.’ Agrippa chastised his friend gently. Gaius’ eyes flickered to him.

‘I don’t know.’ he replied before wandering away. Agrippa frowned, catching up with him easily and began to gesticulate as he spoke to his friend. Gaius answered, at first in a testy tone, then warmer, more mellow.

They fell into synchronised steps as easily as if they had known each other their entire lives. Sphaerus gazed after them until their voiced dwindled away, a faint smile on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I spend some time on the extremely irrelevant question of whether there could be a writing desk in a Roman atrium, and the answer is ‘I don’t know, maybe’. Anyway here’s an atrium art I found on the internet. Image NOT MINE:  
> 


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